Guilt and Dependence
by baseballfan44
Summary: Don faces an uncertain future, and Charlie feels guilty. Major Don-whumping, minor Charlie-whumping. Lots and lots and lots of angst. Don/Robin, Charlie/Amita.
1. Chapter 1

Hello! I now present to you, my first (intentionally) multi-chapter Numb3rs fic! I've got 10 chapters here, and it's complete. So good news, you don't have to wait for me to write more, because it's already written! Instead, you'll probably have to wait about 2 days or so at a time, because that's just when I'll post each chapter. This is a new type of story for me . . . I went places in this fic I've never dared to go before. But I had tons and tons of fun writing it, and cranked it out in a surprisingly short amount of time, so I hope you enjoy reading it just as much! The only thing I really hate about this story is the title but I don't really care that much about titles.

I must warn you: I have inflicted a permanent injury on one of the Eppes boys (something I've never done before). If you do not like that, I suggest you click the back arrow now.

Anyway, here's the first chapter. Hope you enjoy, but please leave a review either way!

****Guilt and Dependence

Chapter 1 (Charlie)

_Drops of water dripped off his eyelashes. It almost felt like he was crying, but it was hard to tell when the rain drops streamed down his face at so rapid a pace. The volume of water assaulting his face was making it nearly impossible to keep his eyes open. But he had to. It was a matter of life and death. _

_It was becoming more and more difficult to remember exactly why it was a life or death situation, but somewhere behind the incessant throbbing emanating somewhere from his forehead, something was demanding that he sit up, brush the water off his face, and go fix . . . whatever the problem was. What was it? What was wrong? Hmm. It was raining, and his head hurt. He turned his head slightly to the right, hoping the rain on his face would dissipate long enough for him to take in his surroundings. _

_He was lying next to a car. Something about the car looked wrong, though. _

_Oh. It was lying on its side. It took him a few seconds to register that cars weren't supposed to lie on their sides. All four wheels are supposed to be on the ground._

_Car. _

_Wet._

_Pain._

_. . . ._

_Oh._

_Now he remembered. Now he remembered with such stunning clarity that it only made his forehead throb harder. He'd been driving the car in the rain. His brother had been in the passenger seat, light-heartedly ribbing him about his driving skills, when suddenly, the car had begun to drift across the road. Before he knew it, before he could even think to apply the brakes, the vehicle struck a guardrail. He didn't really remember flipping over on to the side, or even being airborne, but his highly analytical brain was leading him to the conclusion that they must have left the ground at some point for them to be on the ground, sideways, on the other side of the guard rail. He didn't quite want to think about how he ended up not being inside the vehicle, but rather, next to it._

_A thought slapped him in the face. Where was his brother? His brother had been in the car. Oh, crap. Where was he? He tried calling out. He somehow managed to get his voice to reach a reasonable level, but even then, he heard no response from the other man._

_Panic setting in, he rose quickly to his feet. His vision went black for a second, and he found himself gripping some piece of the underside of the car, unable to move. Finally, he collected his wits and stumbled around to the other side of the car._

_His brother lay on the ground, eyes wide open and clouded with intense pain. The entire lower half of his brother's body was obscured by the car. His brother was trapped, he realized. He had to get him out from under the car. His brother was staring up at him, silently begging someone to free him from his torment._

_It was as if an invisible wall separated him from his brother. Literally. He couldn't move past a certain spot. He couldn't reach his brother, which was all he wanted—no, needed—to do. The one thing he needed to do was help his brother and he couldn't. All he could do was stand there and watch his brother be tortured by the pain and agony. _

_He found his legs wouldn't support him anymore, once he heard his brother cry out to him, pleading with him to help. But he couldn't. He was stuck behind the wall, helpless._

_Horrified, he watched as his brother began to bleed. Profusely. It gushed out of him. He felt like he was literally watching his brother's life leak out of his body. It circled the older man's head like a deep crimson halo. His brother's skin was paling at a rate proportional to that of the oozing of the blood. _

_And still he could make no move to help. He was rooted in place. By now, the rain had slowed, but his face was just as wet—only now from tears. He called out to his brother, hoping somehow, the other man would manage to forgive him before his life was completely drained away . . ._

* * *

><p>Wheezing and gasping, Charlie shot up from the couch like a rocket. It took him a few seconds to comprehend that what he'd just experienced was nothing more than a dream—a horrifying nightmare. And a rather clichéd one at that. Who didn't relive traumatic experiences in their dreams?<p>

At least that part about Charlie was normal. He remembered telling Don once a few years ago that he didn't even dream normal, after having his first dream about their mother since she'd died. But no, it seemed as if maybe he did dream like a normal person. Or at least had post-traumatic nightmares like a normal person.

In his head, he knew that of course it was normal. It had only been five days since the accident, after all. He'd nearly been killed—he'd sustained a nasty concussion that had kept him hospitalized until this morning. And his brother. Charlie shuddered. Don had come much, much closer to slipping away from them. Charlie still sometimes had his doubts that Don was still with them—because it had been that frighteningly close. It was only natural, Charlie knew intellectually, for him to be experiencing such unpleasant dreams.

But overpowering Charlie's intellectual knowledge—a rare occurrence for such a genius—was a feeling deep in his gut. He wanted to punch someone every time anyone reassured Charlie that the nightmares were normal. He didn't care.

Living through the accident was traumatizing and frightening enough. He did not want to experience it all over again every time he went to sleep—which these days, was quite often.

As Charlie was forcing himself to breathe normally, Amita appeared in the living room. Somewhat magically, Charlie thought. Suddenly she was just . . . there.

"You okay?" she asked, with a note of concern. She sat down next to Charlie on the couch, raising her arm to gently rub Charlie's back.

"Yeah," Charlie grunted gruffly. "Yeah, I'm fine." He couldn't bring himself to look his wife in the eye.

To her credit, Amita didn't say anything. Charlie was grateful for the lack of empty, reassuring platitudes. Instead, they just sat there in silence for a few minutes, before Amita spoke again.

"Your dad called a few minutes ago," she announced. Charlie made no response. He was almost afraid of what she had to say. "Don was awake for a little bit this morning."

She paused, and Charlie let this tidbit of information sink in. _Don was awake for a little bit this morning._ Well, that was good. Don hadn't been awake now for nearly five days. Of course, that was a predictable outcome for someone who had been partially pinned underneath a car in the wet rain for a prolonged period of time.

He looked up at Amita, but didn't say anything. She correctly took that as a cue to continue.

"Alan said he didn't really fill Don in on any of the details yet," she explained. "He was still pretty out of it and he fell asleep again pretty quickly, but hopefully next time he wakes up Alan or Robin can tell him."

Charlie squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep, shuddering breath. Guilt slashed through him like a knife.

Of course, there'd be nothing to tell Don if Charlie had just reacted quicker—if he didn't have such terrible reflexes, he wouldn't have sent them careening off only to smash into a guard rail, and they wouldn't have flipped over multiple times only to—

His thoughts were cut off as he became aware of Amita speaking once more.

"You know, if you're feeling up to it tomorrow, we could go see him," she was saying. "He's going to need all the support he can get. But only if you feel better tomorrow. I don't want you to push yourself."

"We'll just see, I guess," Charlie murmured. He could feel Amita's concerned gaze boring into him. But he fell silent, not answering the question in her eyes.

Eventually, she spoke up again. "I was thinking about making some soup. Are you hungry at all?"

Charlie shook his head. "Not really."

"Okay," she replied, sounding a little disappointed. "Well, I'll make it anyway, and if you don't want it, we can always reheat it later." She rose from the couch, hesitating before she made her exit through the swinging kitchen door.

Charlie didn't even bother watching her go; he just stared at the floor. A part of him was indescribably grateful to her for being so understanding, but the rest of him hated her for it. _Why does she have to be so goddamn supportive?_ He didn't deserve the loving strength she was providing him. Everything that had happened was his fault. He deserved to be left alone.

Everything was falling down into the crapper, and it was his fault.

His brother's entire life was about to change drastically, and it was his fault.

One thing Charlie knew for sure, there was no way Charlie was going to go see Don tomorrow. He didn't want to be within a mile of that hospital room when either his dad or Robin broke the news to Don. He couldn't bear to see whatever look of pain, or anger, or confusion, or fear that might manifest itself in Don's eyes.

Although in all reality, Charlie knew he deserved to be there. Either way, his brother was going to suffer, and Charlie knew he deserved the torment that would come from watching it. After all, it was his fault that Don was in this situation to begin with.

Charlie leaned back against the couch. He was beginning to get a headache. All he wanted to do was sleep and pretend the real world didn't exist. Unfortunately, every time he fell asleep, a twisted and more horrifying version of reality always presented itself.

At least Don was still alive.

Charlie had seen Don once since the accident. It was thirty-six hours afterwards, when they were both in the hospital. He'd still been fairly woozy from the concussion and the pain meds to help it, but he could remember it now anyways. His dad had wheeled him into Don's room in a wheelchair. Don had been so still. It was reminiscent of the previous time Don had been hospitalized, when he was stabbed. Thankfully, though, unlike last time, there was no ventilator to block Don's face from view.

He had seemed so still, Charlie remembered. Of course, Don was suffering from hypothermia (thankfully not too severe a case), had sustained blood loss from a nasty gash in his lower abdomen caused by the car door, and was also recovering from that awful, life-altering surgery that had been done on his lower leg that they'd viewed as a necessary evil.

Charlie felt his stomach turn just thinking about it. It was so awful, all of it. The accident. Don's injuries. All of it. And it was all his fault. All because he'd been driving too fast, like an idiot.

And Don's life would change forever because of it. He'd no longer be able to work as a field agent—something that everyone knew Don was good at. Sure, Don still had many good things in his life to look forward to. He'd finally married Robin, and they were happy together. On top of all that, Robin was pregnant and due to give birth in two months. Of course, Don would still be trying to work his way back to some semblance of normalcy in two months—and because of Charlie, Don's recovery would make it difficult to look forward to a baby.

Charlie didn't even want to know what would happen later, once Don was awake and lucid enough to learn of the sudden sharp turn his life was taking. He didn't want to be there when his brother put the pieces together and realized that it was all Charlie's fault.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to all of you who reviewed the first chapter! I'm glad you are all enjoying so far. This chapter should answer a few of your questions. Enjoy, and of course, review at the end please!

Chapter 2 (Don)

He'd been drifting in and out of it for so long that time had ceased to have any meaning at all. He'd been vaguely aware of his dad. He'd been vaguely aware of Robin. He'd been vaguely aware of some unfamiliar people. But he'd had too little energy to try and figure out who they were. Or where he was. Or anything at all about what was going on.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pull anything into focus at all. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurred to him that he was likely at least mostly unconscious, but he didn't really know how to do anything about that, so he didn't dwell on it.

The only thing he could think of to do was sleep. Maybe if he tried to sleep for long enough, he'd eventually ride out whatever situation he was in, and come out the other side and everything would come back to normal.

When he did fall asleep—or at least he was pretty sure he was asleep—his dreams had been confused and disjointed. He felt wet . . . he felt pain . . . he felt cold. He could hear his brother reaching him, trying to help chase the pain and the cold away. But he couldn't even begin to attempt to make sense of any of it.

At some point, Don suddenly realized that he was legitimately aware of his surroundings. The first thing he noticed was that his eyes were closed. Okay, he'd have to fix that somehow. But first, he wanted to figure out what these sounds he was hearing was.

A beeping noise, steady in the background. He didn't have the slightest idea what that was. A murmuring sound, coming from somewhere close by. He concentrated on that one for awhile. It was two different murmuring sounds, actually. One was deeper, and one was softer.

They were voices, Don realized. He figured they most likely belonged to Dad and Robin.

Only one way to find out. His eyelids were ultra-heavy, but with strength that Don felt rivaled Superman's, he managed to pull them open.

His vision was a little blurry, but not so much that he couldn't tell who was sitting off to his right. There was his dad, looking tired and worn. Next to him was Robin, with her beautiful long hair that Don loved so much. Her hands were resting on her enlarged belly that held his future child.

He couldn't bring himself to do much other than just stare at them for awhile. He was tired, and he didn't have the energy to try and get their attention. He'd deduced that he was in a hospital, and the beeping noise he'd been hearing was a heart monitor.

Eventually, though, the two of them most definitely noticed him. They looked over at him and smiled. A rough hand, his dad's, grabbed his. He blinked in response.

"Oh, Don," Robin whispered near his ear. He felt her hand rubbing his forehead, pushing his hair back. "How're you feeling, sweetheart?"

Don concentrated really hard on making his tongue and vocal chords obey him. " . . . tired," he managed to breathe out.

Robin continued rubbing his forehead. "We'll let you sleep," she assured him, and he was glad. As confused as he was as to what was happening and why he was in a hospital, sleep was all he really wanted to do.

He could feel his father grip his hand a little tighter and lean in closer to him. "Do you feel any pain, Donnie?"

Pain? Hmm. He couldn't really tell. He supposed he _should_ be in pain. If he was in a hospital, he was probably injured. He didn't really know, so he simply shook his head.

He shut his eyes again; unable to keep them open any longer. He supposed he probably looked really pathetic. He felt pretty pathetic. But at the moment, he didn't know or even care why.

And that was that. He fell asleep and was unaware once more, falling back into strange dreams of being painfully cold and wet and trapped somewhere and for some reason that he still couldn't figure out, Charlie was there with him.

* * *

><p>Don went through a few more cycles of waking and sleeping before his energy level had improved significantly enough for him to stay awake long enough to learn what had happened.<p>

When his dad had told him, there were so many alarming parts to the story that Don figured he'd have a heart attack by the end.

He'd been in a car accident with Charlie when Charlie had been driving—first alarming point. He'd had to stop his father in the middle of a sentence, begging for reassurance that his younger brother was okay. Charlie was fine, his dad had said. He'd taken a nice bonk on the head, and had been in the hospital for a couple of days, but he was at home and recuperating quickly. Nothing to worry about. But Don still worried.

At that point, Don realized that although he didn't actually remember an accident, he did remember riding with Charlie in his little blue Prius, and it had been raining. He told his dad as much, and Alan confirmed Don's shaky memory - it had indeed been raining. It had been raining so hard that the windshield wipers failed to keep up, and the two hadn't seen the too-large puddle in the road. They'd hit it and started sliding, and the Prius's brakes were just worn out enough that the car didn't quite slow down enough before hitting the guard rail and toppling over.

Second alarming point—the car had flipped over and somehow, both Don and Charlie had ended up not inside the vehicle. Which made no sense as they'd both been wearing seatbelts - but apparently the force of them striking the guard rail had been enough to cause both their belts to snap. Charlie had been okay, probably because he'd ended up near the vehicle whereas Don had ended up _under_ the vehicle. Well, his dad had sugar-coated these details a little, but Don knew.

His father's normally well-controlled emotions had begun to leak at this point in the story. Don's tired mind could only imagine how difficult and painful it would be for his dad to deal with the image of his son being helplessly pinned underneath something as large and heavy as a car, all the while in pain, shivering cold, and rapidly becoming rain-soaked. It was a bit much for Don himself to think about.

He'd nearly died. His dad had basically said as much. He probably would have, too, had Charlie not been there. He likely would have bled out, right there on the ground, under the car, had Charlie not been there to help slow down the bleeding. Charlie had saved his life. Although Don had a sneaking suspicion that Charlie probably wasn't seeing things quite the same way. He made a mental note to make sure Charlie knew that Don was grateful, as soon as Charlie came to see him.

He'd thought that was the end of the story. His dad had stopped talking, but Don now realized that he'd just been hesitating, trying to figure out how to say the rest.

Don looked his father in the eye, hoping his gaze was strong enough to help his father realize that he could continue and Don would be okay, no matter what he had to say.

Eventually, his dad continued. "Donnie," he said, "your left leg took the worst of it. The damage was pretty severe." He looked at Don, hard. It was as if he was hoping that Don would somehow telepathically get the message.

Which he did, sort of. A rock settled at the bottom of Don's stomach, although he couldn't quite figure out why it was there or what it meant. He just knew his father was telling him something really, really bad.

"It was too much, Donnie," his dad was saying. "They couldn't fix it. There was no way they could have fixed it. And besides, it was cut pretty badly and it was starting to become seriously infected—they had to move quickly."

Alarm bells were clanging loudly in Don's head now. _Infected, huh?_ That would explain why he felt so weak and sick. That plus the drugs made his mind too sluggish to put all the pieces together right away, though.

"What are you saying, Dad?" Don asked, the words leaving his mouth very slowly, one word at a time. His eyes were wide; he was watching his father's face with perfect attentiveness. He could hear the heart monitor speed up a tiny bit; there was no hiding his anxiety.

His dad took a deep breath. "There wasn't any choice son," he rambled. "I mean you could have died if they didn't . . . and there's no way you could've rehabilitated yourself back from—I mean, they had to . . . they had to take it off, Donnie. I'm so sorry."

The world fell out from underneath him, somehow, right then.

* * *

><p>Robin was there, later. She was a nice, refreshing change from his dad. Not that he was necessarily sick of his dad or anything, it was just—he'd needed something else for awhile. He felt like he'd spent so much time sitting there, listening to his dad reassure him time and time again how everything would be fine. He'd be okay. Things would work out for him, in the end. He'd learn to walk on a prosthetic leg; he could probably get another non-field position with the FBI if he wanted; he had a baby to look forward to in two months. All true statements, but Don felt it was a little more complicated than that.<p>

Yes, he'd go through rehab and be fine later, but right now he wasn't, and he figured that re-learning how to walk on a leg that wasn't his own was going to be incredibly difficult. Yes, he could get some non-field job, maybe even with the Bureau, but at this point, Don didn't even want to think about that. That would be a whole other nightmare. And yes, Robin was due to have their baby in two months. But suddenly, the timing was all wrong. In two months, Don would be in the middle of recovering and trying to work his way back to some shred of normalcy and he was afraid it would be hard to focus much attention on being a new father.

He didn't tell his dad any of this, though. He'd nodded and pretended that he was fine, but it wasn't that simple. He'd been incredibly grateful when his dad finally noticed how tired he was and had let him go to sleep.

Now Robin was here, and she wasn't offering him any empty reassurances, and for that Don was happy. But she looked pretty forlorn herself, for which Don wasn't so happy. He grabbed her hand and squeezed, hoping to reassure her.

She looked at him then and smiled a small, sad smile. He returned the smile, hoping it would reassure her. She looked just as shaken up by this sudden situation as he felt.

He rubbed her arm gently. "Hey," he said softly. "I'll be fine, okay? Don't worry about it." He felt bad. He knew this had to be really hard on Robin. As he'd been unconscious and significantly injured at the time when something had needed to be done about his leg, Robin, as his wife, had to act as his medical proxy. She'd been the one to officially consent to the procedure, and he knew she was feeling awful for it.

Robin was chuckling quietly and mirthlessly. "I don't know how you can sit there and tell _me_ you'll be fine," she told him. "If I were you, I would—I wouldn't even know what to do."

Don didn't say anything; he wasn't quite sure how to respond. He didn't know what to do right now. He smiled again, a small smile, and reached up to touch Robin's face.

"I'm so sorry, Don," Robin whispered, gripping his hand with both of hers. His heart broke at the tears in her eyes.

"Please don't be," he soothed. "There was nothing else you could do, okay?"

She nodded and sniffed, but remained silent. Don didn't say anything else, either; he was unsure of what else he could say.

They sat in silence for a few moments, each trying to comfort each other. Finally, Don spoke again.

"Hey, how's Charlie doing?" he asked. He hadn't really heard anything about his younger brother since his father had told him what happened. He'd been hoping to see Charlie one of these days, but so far not yet.

Robin took a deep breath. "I guess he's doing okay," she answered vaguely. "He's been at the house, recovering. I haven't really talked to him or Amita in awhile. You probably should ask your dad about that."

Don nodded absently. He'd figured as much. Robin seemed to know more than she was saying, but he was not going to press the issue. But years of being a LEO had honed his skills of reading between the lines, and he could pretty much infer how Charlie was _really_ doing. Charlie was an emotional person who took everything to heart—and he'd just witnessed something terrible happening to his older brother that he likely felt responsible for. Knowing Charlie, the younger man probably never took into account the time he spent slowing down the bleeding in his injured brother's gut and just generally keeping Don alive. Don just wished he could speak with his brother—maybe Charlie would know then that it was okay.

Don sighed, closing his eyes. He was suddenly finding himself in an awful situation, and too many people were feeling guilty about it. He just hoped he'd have the strength to handle it all.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Hello, lovely readers! Thank you all for reading. I hope you are ready for Chapter 3, and I do so very much hope you enjoy it! As always, leave a review . . . I love love LOVE hearing what people think!

Chapter 3 (Charlie)

For as much as it had been raining ten days ago when everything changed, it sure was ridiculously hot now. Even the air-conditioning wasn't quite masking the sun that was shining so brightly through the solarium windows. He would have preferred to be working in the nice, cool garage, but the garage had been turned into a small guest house where his father now lived. Although it was a perfect setup for everyone, Charlie sometimes found that he missed the garage. He'd accomplished most of his best work there—the Eppes Convergence, most of his work thus far on his Cognitive Emergence Theory, and he'd uncovered countless interesting new leads on many FBI cases, before he'd gone to England. Since his return, he hadn't been working with the FBI quite as much, but still was occasionally.

He rubbed at the beads of sweat on his forehead. He could feel a slight headache coming on, but he didn't care. He took a deep breath and continued to write on the blackboard. He was like a man possessed, scribbling madly. It was a good thing he knew what he was writing; he was a little afraid he might not be able to read his chicken-scratch handwriting later.

Oh well. He shrugged a little to himself. Keep moving. _Can't let this get away from you._

His grip on the chalk was becoming slippery. He absently wiped his hand off his shirt, paying more attention to reading his most recent line of work.

Shaking his head and growling softly to himself, Charlie picked up the eraser and rubbed it furiously over the bottom of the board. _No, no, no, that doesn't make sense . . . pay attention to what you're writing, you idiot._ His thoughts were completely disjointed and unsupported, as if he was thinking about something else. But he couldn't recall actually _thinking_ about anything other than his current task any time in the last hour—he checked his watch, whoops, three hours—that he'd been in here working. _Gah!_ What was wrong with his concentration today?

He supposed it could have still been an after-effect of falling out of a moving car and practically landing on his head, but he felt like it should have been long enough now that his concentration levels shouldn't be affected. He didn't know; he didn't know enough about head injuries to make that judgment.

Oh, there he was, drifting again, ironically drifting off about drifting off this time. He heaved a big sigh and wiped more sweat off his forehead. Maybe he needed a quick break. He supposed his new line of thought on his Cognitive Emergence theory was currently too underdeveloped to make any headway on at the moment. A few minutes of resting on the couch here wouldn't hurt, he figured.

He didn't even need a nap—just to sit for a few minutes. He didn't even _want_ a nap. Sleeping hadn't worked out too well for Charlie lately. He'd been really tired, so it didn't take much for him to fall asleep—so it seemed like all he had to do anymore was shut his eyes and there it would be—more images of his Prius tumbling off the side of the road, throwing him and Don out with it, and landing on Don, pinning him helplessly to the ground.

Pulling both his legs up onto to the small sofa, Charlie found himself staring at his feet.

It was so unfair.

A part of him so fervently wished that he could trade places with his brother. He wished the car had landed on _him_, not Don. For one reason, mainly. He deserved it. It was his fault they'd wrecked, anyways. He'd been driving the car. He should have to suffer the consequences of his own actions, or rather, inaction. He should have been the one to be punished for his erroneous driving, not Don.

Everything would change for Don—everything. It just wasn't fair; it wasn't fair at all. Things should not have worked out this way.

He leaned his head over to the side of the couch and drew his knees to his chest.

It literally made him sick to think of the situation Don now found himself in. His stomach twisted and turned every time it threatened to even enter his mind.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Things had been going so well for all of them. Don had been happier than Charlie had ever seen him before. How could something this bad have happened?

The worst part was that Charlie knew he'd never be able to make it up to his brother. How could one go about making something like that up to someone? He'd made a mistake while driving-he _must_ have-and it had changed his brother's life. What was he supposed to do about that? It just was so awful, and Charlie just wished he could turn back time so this whole thing wouldn't have happened and he could just—

His head jerked forward. _Wait, what was I just thinking about?_

And he drifted off, just like that, on the solarium couch.

* * *

><p><em>The wet was back, and Charlie noticed it more this time. It soaked him to the bone and chilled him, causing him to shiver violently. Thankfully, he could feel himself becoming numb, but as of yet, he could still hardly stand how cold he was. It pierced him through to his very core.<em>

_Damn. He was becoming distracted from his current task. Damn the cold, the cold was consuming his mind. What was he supposed to be doing again? _

_Oh yeah, his brother. He had to find his brother. He knew Don was in trouble somewhere. _

_Charlie walked along for awhile; it was dark, and he didn't know where he was exactly. He just knew he was wet and that it was dark. _

_What was that? Did he just hear someone calling his name? Damn. He broke out into a run. The air flow from his increasing speed only served to chill him further—something he hadn't been sure was possible. But he shoved his discomfort aside, with a Herculean effort. His brother needed him. He could vaguely hear his name being called somewhere off to . . . was it his left? He paused, listening. _

_Charlie shuffled his feet slowly to the left and the sound was indeed getting louder. It was becoming obvious now, that his name was being called by a voice that was clearly his brother's. Charlie became nervous; it sounded like Don was distressed. _

"_Charlie," Don called and suddenly the word was being breathed into Charlie's ear. He whipped his head around and suddenly, his nose was practically touching his brother's. _

_He pulled his head back a little in surprise. "Don," he breathed. He stepped back, taking in the sight of his brother standing there. Charlie was slightly confused. Nothing looked too odd about his brother, except for the fact that his face was contorted as if he were in pain—or more accurately, he looked betrayed._

"_Charlie," Don whispered. "How could you let this happen? This should have been you."_

_Don's brown eyes gazed piercingly into Charlie's. Charlie had to look away. "Don," he squeaked out. _

"_Charlie!" Don had resumed his loud calling. "Charlie!"_

* * *

><p>"Charlie!"<p>

The cold suddenly vanished, replaced by hot. He was sweating again—a lot.

"Charlie!"

Suddenly, Charlie realized his eyes were shut. _Huh._ He opened them, expecting to see Don still staring at him, and was surprised to find Amita's concerned gaze directed down to him.

"Hey, Charlie," she said. "Are you okay? You seemed like you were having quite the nightmare there."

Charlie sat up. He was still on the couch in the solarium. _Man oh man._ He hadn't had a dream quite like that one before. They'd always featured Don being trapped under the Prius, just like it had happened in real life. But this one—it was already fleeting away from Charlie's mind. He already couldn't quite recall where he and Don had been or what had been happening during the dream.

"I'm fine," he mumbled. He tried to give Amita a small smile. He stood up, brushing past her, and moved towards the chalkboard.

"Charlie, what were you doing in here?" Amita wondered.

"Oh . . . um, I . . . sorry . . . um, what?" Charlie stuttered. He'd already forgotten what she'd asked.

Amita was looking at him incredulously, and he sighed impatiently. She could always just answer his question, he argued to himself, instead of wasting both their time staring at him like he was an idiot.

Okay, that was pretty unfair, he had to admit.

"I just don't understand why you've shut yourself up here in this hot room," she elaborated. "I understand that you might be wanting to get some work done with not much else to do right now, but do you have to do it here? You should have asked me, we could have moved the chalkboard down to the living room, where it's cooler—"

Charlie cut her off. "I like the solarium. Even if it's hot." He wished she would leave him alone now.

Amita sighed, seemingly unsure of how to respond. "Okay. Well. Um, maybe since you've been feeling a lot better the last couple days I thought maybe you'd like to get out of the house."

That was the last thing Charlie wanted to do. Even though he wasn't medically cleared to and therefore had yet to drive since the accident, he wasn't too keen on riding in cars either.

"Um, no thanks," he told her, trying to muster up a smile. "I was really getting in the zone here."

Amita chanced a sly glance over towards the couch that Charlie had just been napping on. "Yep, I can tell." She smiled up at him.

Charlie had to admit, he was glad the mood was lightening up. He let out a small, exasperated laugh. "No, really! I had a whole new line of thought going, I just—before I was . . . well, I got a little, um—"

"Uh-huh, sure." Amita was laughing. "Well, anyways, are you sure? I thought maybe we could go to the store, pick up something to make for dinner, and you know, maybe we could stop by the hospital and see how your brother's doing. I know he wants to see you."

Charlie's stomach did a full somersault, but he felt he hid all outward signs fairly well. "No. I'm serious. I just was feeling tired earlier, I thought maybe a quick break would help me focus better. I didn't even mean to fall asleep. Seriously. Now, I'm just ready to keep going on this line of thought. I'm really heading off down a significant new direction for my Cognitive Emergence theory. Really, I'm actually quite excited about it."

Amita narrowed her eyes slightly, as if trying to read his mind. It made him shift uncomfortably, like a child under his parents' knowing scrutiny.

He flashed her a small smile. "If you'd like, I can help you decide what we want for dinner, but then I really have to get back to work. Really." He hoped that by providing that small peace offering, she'd leave him alone.

She sighed heavily. "Charlie. You do know that Don doesn't blame you for what happened, right? None of us do. And I'm serious. Your dad says Don really does wish you'd come and see him."

Charlie flinched, her words feeling like a cosmically sardonic slap in the face. "I'm sure that's what he says."

"What do you mean by that?" Amita's face was a portrait of confusion. "Of course Don says he wants to see you."

"Yeah, well, we all know Don," Charlie started to explain. "He always says things are okay and acts like he's just peachy, but there's usually something else going on inside that he doesn't let anyone else see."

Amita did little more than stare at him for nearly ten seconds. Charlie, by that point, was worked up enough to stare back. _Of course Don's just keeping it inside._ That's what Charlie had been trying to do all along, after all. And of course, Don was always better at it than he was.

Which must be why everyone believed it when Don said he was fine and that he wanted Charlie to come by. Either that or they were just so desperate to believe that Don was fine. But Charlie wasn't fooled.

"Well, you certainly wouldn't know, would you," Amita eventually shot back, her voice quiet and threatening. "You haven't been there."

Charlie shut his eyes, her words stinging. "Maybe not, but I _do_ know my brother. He hides things, we all know that."

"I don't even know how to respond to that," Amita told him, frowning.

"Then maybe you should just go off and run your errands," Charlie suggested, his voice taking on a pleading quality. "I really do need to get back to work."

"If that's what you really want," Amita conceded. With that, she turned and left Charlie alone in the hot solarium. He watched her go, not bothering to try and stop her.

Of course Don would tell everyone that he didn't blame Charlie. Don was mostly the type to avoid trouble, so of course he would feel like if everyone else thought he was okay, then they'd be okay too and there'd be no trouble. And obviously, it wasn't even a possibility that Amita was correct. Why would it be?

It was _clearly_ all Charlie's fault. Don would have to be a fool not to know that, and Don was no fool.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Hello! For those of you who celebrate it, I hope you all have had a marvelous Thanksgiving and that you are all in food comas!

Secondly, here is where I should mention that I really know absolutely nothing about amputations or the recovery process/length of time beyond what I have read during a Google search while writing this story. So, in attempt to be as accurate as possible, I also kept things fairly vague. As far as the emotions that many amputees and their loved ones might experience, I also have no knowledge on such matters, so I may have taken creative licenses here. It's my story, I can do that, right? :)

Anyways, as always, read and please review at the end!

Chapter 4 (Don)

Sometimes when Don woke up and realized that someone was in the room with him, he would pretend to be asleep, at least for awhile, just for a chance to be alone with his thoughts. He understood why there were always people with him and he didn't really feel like asking them to leave him alone. So pretending to nap was his only real option.

But _god, _he really hated this. So far, it wasn't so much his leg being suddenly not there that was frustrating him—he'd hardly been out of bed enough for that. It was just the whole thing. Feeling sick and tired, not moving for so long, and everything being so goddamn difficult to do was making him feel almost as if he were still trapped under a car, unable to help himself. And knowing that as soon as he was able to get up out of the bed, his life was going to start changing in possibly more ways than he could even anticipate, was not helping him feel better at all.

He had just barely started to admit to himself that he was actually a little afraid to start feeling better. Because that would mean starting parts of his life all over. That alone was a thought that to Don, of almost 42 years of age, was terrifying beyond belief. He was getting too old to start anything all over again.

Physically, he had been improving steadily over the past five or so days. He still slept more often than he was awake, but he was starting to gain a little strength and all the parts of him that had been sliced open as a result of the accident were healing nicely. He was due to start physical therapy soon, and as soon as he gained enough mobility from that he would be released from the hospital. He'd learned that generally patients started to get up and move around the day after the surgery, but in his case, he'd been sick and was suffering other injuries, so it was even _more_ complicated. It was a strange dilemma, he'd found, because he was physically unable to move for a while, but the longer he spent _not_ moving, the harder it would be to start. The doctor figured he was looking at another couple of weeks in the hospital—which Don had mixed feelings about. While he hated hated _hated _being in the hospital, he was afraid of what would await him as soon as he was released.

There was a soft knock on the door, but Don pretended not to notice—he pretended to still be asleep. His dad got up to answer it.

"Amita, hey," his dad whispered. "Is Charlie with you?" The hope in his voice was practically tangible, Don thought. He guessed that his sister-in-law must have shaken her head, because his father continued. "I was afraid this might happen."

"Me trying to get him to come was a pretty short conversation," Amita explained, her voice volume lowered to respect Don's "sleeping". "I'm not even sure what argument to make anymore. The only one I had was pretty much shot down right away."

Don heard his dad sigh. "It's hard, I agree. It's hard to convince someone of something when you aren't entirely sure what they're thinking."

Amita let out a small huff of breath. "Oh, that's not it. I pretty much know what he's thinking. He thinks Don blames him for this. He thinks Don doesn't really want to see him. He's afraid that if he comes, he's just going to make Don feel worse. He legitimately thinks we all blame him, I _know_ it. It's just that whenever I try to tell him that he's wrong, or that it isn't all his fault, it's like I might as well be talking to a wall."

_Damn, Charlie_. Things may have been worse for Charlie than Don had imagined. He'd been sleeping so much the last few days that while he'd noticed that his younger brother hadn't been by to visit, it hadn't become a big deal yet. Don wasn't stupid, he'd figured that Charlie would feel some shred of guilt over what had happened to him, but his mind had been swirling with so many thoughts that he hadn't had a chance to focus on that particular one yet. But now that Amita had shared her insight, he allowed himself to realize that there might possibly be a serious problem.

His dad had seemed as startled by Amita's blunt and clearly frustrated assessment as he had. It took the oldest Eppes awhile to come up with a response.

"Oh, Amita," he said, "have I ever told you how glad I am that my son found someone that was able to know and understand him so well?"

With his eyes closed, Don didn't see whatever Amita's non-verbal response was.

"I'll get around to having this conversation with him sometime soon," his dad was saying. "It's just difficult to leave Don here. I don't want to leave him here. It makes me feel better just sitting here and knowing he's still here. And when I do come home, I never seem to have the energy to really talk to Charlie—instead I just need to, you know, be in a room with him too, like Donnie. It helps just to sit with them—to know they're alive."

_Exactly why I'm lying here, pretending to be asleep, instead of just asking you to leave me alone,_ Don thought to himself.

"I understand," Amita assured his father. "How's Don been doing, anyway?"

Don stiffened. He tried to quickly decide if he should "wake up" before he had to listen to an answer to this question, but his father beat him to it.

"I'm not really sure," his dad said. "He acts like this doesn't bother him too much, but I mean really, how can it not? I mean, this is the worst thing that's probably ever happened to him, but I don't know. I think he might still be in shock a little bit over the whole thing. But I know he's terrified. He thinks he can hide it from me, but he can't. Typical Donnie, he tries to act like he's Superman but we all know he's not. I can't even really imagine the depth of the fear that must be going through him right now."

_Man._ His dad sure knew him better than he figured. In fact, Don's dad might know him better than Don himself did. Because Don sure couldn't even imagine his own fear about everything yet.

Suddenly, Don didn't feel like being isolated with his own thoughts anymore. He needed contact with other people.

He stirred a little; drawing the attention of the room's other two occupants. He blinked his eyes open, reaching his right arm up to rub his face.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," his dad greeted him. "How was your nap?"

"God, Dad, you're making me feel like I'm five," Don protested.

"Well, five or forty-one, you're still my son," his father argued. "Really, how are you feeling?"

Don sighed. "I'm okay. Where's Robin?"

"Oh, I sent her off to go get something to eat. I just got back from doing so myself a few minutes ago, right before Amita got here."

Don let his eyes stray over to his sister-in-law and flashed her a small smile. "Hey, Amita."

"Hey, Don," Amita greeted softly, returning his smile. "You look a lot better than the last time I was here a few days ago."

"Thanks," he said. He hesitated. Should he ask about Charlie? He already knew the answer and he didn't want to frustrate Amita further, but it might seem suspicious if he didn't ask. He had to ask. "I see Charlie must have stayed home."

Amita shared a hesitant glance with his dad. They were analyzing the situation together; _what should we tell him?_ It was his dad who finally answered him.

"Well, you know Donnie, he's still recovering from a pretty nasty concussion himself," his dad spluttered. "He still needs to rest at home a little bit more. It's probably best. I'm sure he'll come in a couple days."

Don sure hoped his raised eyebrows accurately conveyed his skepticism. Did his father really think he was fooling him?

"Dad," he said, "it's okay. I know how Charlie is. He probably just needs his space for a little while. He'll be all right."

"You're right," his dad agreed with a smile that was meant to be reassuring but didn't quite reach his eyes. "He just needs a little time."

* * *

><p>Fear, guilt, and worry had caused fatigue which in turn had led to more sleeping than Don would have liked. It was amazing, really, how one could become so depleted of energy that he could just sleep and sleep all day long and still be able to sleep later.<p>

Most of the time, when he woke up, he couldn't remember how long he'd been asleep or how long he'd even been in the hospital. It was quickly becoming an endless cycle of waking and sleeping, waking and sleeping. It took Don a little by surprise how disorienting it was.

His energy had obviously been zapped away, but it was slowly returning—and slowly bringing back his mental function as well. For the first time, he actually almost paid his full attention when his doctor came in to examine him-almost.

His dad was in the room with him, but was sitting off to the side, near the window and out of the way of the doctor. Don lay there, more or less staring at the ceiling for most of the process. He was tired. He wished Dr. Morrison would leave so that he could return to his nap.

His leg was suddenly being probed—no, wait. Not really his leg. His stump, it was called. The doctor was messing around, doing something in the area where his leg _should _be but wasn't. For some reason, he was thrown a little off guard by this. Why? It wasn't like this was the first time he'd been awake during an examination. He'd felt what it was like to be touched in an area where there was supposed to be a leg. Why was it suddenly so shocking?

_Oh, dear God._ His leg was gone—the same leg he'd had his entire life. He struggled to sit up a little, under the guise of simply being curious as to what the doctor was doing. He looked down to where his leg had once been, picturing it in his mind's eye.

He could see the scar on the top of his foot he'd gotten as a teenager, slipping down through some sharp rocks at the beach one weekend. Don smiled to himself; he could remember that he'd had a hell of a time explaining to his parents how it had happened without mentioning the alcohol that had been a factor.

He could remember the way his leg had felt when he was sixteen and had broken that ankle playing baseball—and how inconsolably grouchy he'd been at having to sit out the rest of the season.

He could see his toes. The shape of his foot. The well-toned calf, partially obscured by many little dark hairs. Even his knee was gone—the damage had been so severe and the infection had begun to spread just enough that the doctors couldn't even salvage his knee. That would make rehabilitation even _more_ difficult, because he'd learned that swinging a prosthetic leg with a fake knee took way more energy than it would if he had his own real knee.

He could picture the motion of his leg as he ran on it—whether from second to third base, or from chasing down fugitives, or through the neighborhood as a kid during some round of "cops and robbers." He could feel the soles of his shoes as he ran. Cleats, tennis shoes, dress shoes. Sandals. No shoes.

He'd been through a lot with that leg. Don wasn't sure how he felt about it being gone. It was almost like he had suddenly started grieving over it. It had hit him like a ton of bricks—had smashed over him, leaving him in a dazed stupor. Was it ridiculous to feel like mourning for it?

"Donnie?" He was suddenly aware of his dad calling his name. He snapped his head around to face his father, whose gaze was brimming with love and concern. "Donnie, the doctor asked you a question."

"Oh, uh, sorry," he stammered, ashamed. "What was it?"

"I was just asking you how the pain was down here," Dr. Morrison answered. His voice was full of patience, and Don was grateful.

"Uh, it feels better I guess," Don answered, truthfully. He hadn't really noticed much more than a dull twinge lately.

"That's good to hear," Dr. Morrison smiled. "If you think you're ready, I want to start you on therapy right away. Maybe even this afternoon. All right? We need to get you out of this bed."

"Yeah, okay," Don muttered, once again staring back down at the sheets, which had been pulled back over to cover up his non-leg.

"All right, Don, we'll see you later," the doctor was saying. He probably left then, but Don really wasn't paying much attention anymore.

"Donnie," his dad said as stood up and dragged his chair close to the bed before sitting back down. "What's up, Donnie? Are you okay?"

_Come on, Don, get it together,_ he berated himself. He turned his head, looking his dad in the eye, nodding.

"Yeah, Dad, I'm fine," he said. He had to give himself credit; he'd kept his voice fairly strong and in control, given the circumstances. He kept his face solid, watching his dad.

His father clearly wasn't buying it. The face Don saw was a picture of skepticism and disbelief. In that moment, he saw a mere shadow of his own feelings reflected in his father's features. He could see the fear, the worry, the anxiety, the awful and debilitating fear that maybe everything _wouldn't _be all right.

"Donnie, come on." His father's voice had taken on an exasperated edge. "This is big deal. This is an absolutely huge change for you and I'm a little worried. Don, you do seem fine, but you shouldn't be. You should be afraid, you should be upset, _something_! You know? Donnie, it's okay to let yourself feel something about this."

_No, Dad, I don't know if it is._ A small part of him wanted to spill his guts; he needed his daddy to reassure him that everything would be okay. But on the other hand, he needed to be okay and fine himself, or he'd never be able to get through it. If he let himself be too upset about it now, it would only make it harder later. Besides, it sounded like the rest of them could use some strength and solidarity from him. Especially Charlie.

Charlie. That was another thing all together. Charlie had to know that Don was okay, or he'd never stop blaming himself for what happened. It was frustrating beyond all comprehension that Charlie was obviously struggling deeply with this and Don couldn't do a damn thing to help there, either. Not with Charlie at the house and him stuck here.

"I know, Dad," he finally said. "And believe me, I'm definitely—uh, I'm definitely scared. I just . . . don't know if it's fully hit me yet, you know?"

"Yeah, I know." His dad lay a hand on his shoulder, and Don sighed deeply. "I'm sorry, son. I understand."

Don nodded, but didn't say anything. He went back to staring at the same spot on the bed. The spot where there should be a bump in the sheets from his leg—but there wasn't.

_No, it definitely hasn't fully hit me yet._ He gingerly ran an IV-clad hand through his hair. _But it's starting to, that's for sure._

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Hello readers! Here is chapter five. Please oh please read and review!

Chapter 5 (Charlie)

The sandwich tasted unnaturally good, Charlie noted. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that he hadn't eaten much lately. After all, there wasn't anything special about bread, turkey, and mustard all smashed together.

The food was a good idea, he had to admit. He was a little upset that he'd had to take a break from working—he'd been getting _so much_ done lately, it was amazing. He was a little impressed with his own concentration levels.

It was a great distraction, too, Charlie thought. He'd hardly thought about Don or the accident in—oh, wait, how long? He looked at his watch. 2:45. Hmm. But what was the date today? He shrugged, taking another bite of his sandwich. He wasn't sure when he'd last slept, but that was okay. No nightmares that way.

It was a stretch to say Charlie felt good, but he was certainly okay. He had cut out the nightmares by not sleeping. He'd cut out any thoughts of Don at all by simply keeping himself busy all the time. It seemed to be working. It had to have been somewhere around two, maybe three weeks since the accident, and all residual effects from his concussion were mostly gone. Other than a lingering wisp of exhaustion, Charlie felt physically okay.

He popped the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth, and washed it down with a sip of water. He felt even better now after eating. Okay, so while he didn't appreciate Amita's insistent and un-ending efforts to get him to take a break from his work and go visit his brother, he had to admit—he was glad she'd forced him to eat. Even he could see that not eating was just plain dumb.

Another snack would be appropriate later. For now, though, it was back to work. He stood up and resumed writing on the blackboard.

He stayed in focus for a long while, for an immeasurable amount of time. Although he was at a stage now where he was simply running a lot of calculations and not generating too many new ideas, he didn't allow his mind to wander. Sometimes, it felt good to be in the zone this way.

Unfortunately, he didn't get to be "in the zone" for as long as he would have liked. Eventually he was interrupted by the solarium door slowly creaking open. _Dammit, Amita, why can't you just let a guy work in peace?_ He sighed, but didn't turn around. He continued writing on the chalkboard, subconsciously hoping the _clack clack clack_ of the chalk would drown out whatever his wife was going to try and tell him.

A large hand gently grabbed a hold of his shoulder. It registered somewhere in the back of Charlie's head that it was likely not Amita's hand, but he was already starting to pull back into his zone, the calculations consuming most of his thoughts.

"Charlie," a voice said. He sighed. He dropped his chalk, realizing that he wasn't about to get any more work done until his father was no longer in the room.

"Hey, Dad," he greeted, trying to keep his voice agreeable. He turned around to face his dad.

"How're you doing, son?" His dad's face was studying him. Charlie squirmed a little.

"Fine," he replied quickly. He picked up his chalk again, and started to turn around. His dad wouldn't let him though; instead he was led over to the old greenish-colored wicker couch—another thing that had once been in his former garage.

"Come on and sit down with me, Charlie," his dad was saying. Something about the older man's tone was unsettling to Charlie. His eyes widened. _Did something happen to Don? _Something else, anyways, other than what Charlie had already caused to happen. He watched his father expectantly, waiting.

"Well, now that I've got your attention," his father began, "there's something I'd like to talk to you about."

"What's up?" Charlie asked. A stab of fear went through him at his father's expression. It was as if the Eppes patriarch was thinking hard, carefully weighing what he was about to say. It took him several seconds to respond—seconds that felt to Charlie like minutes.

His dad sighed heavily. "Charlie, how long are you going to keep this up?"

That's not exactly what Charlie had expected his dad to say. He thought he was about to receive some bad news, or maybe that his dad—with whom Charlie hadn't had a _real_ conversation with since the accident—was coming here to finally admit that everyone blamed the accident and Don's injuries on him. What was his dad getting at?

"Uh, keep what up?" he asked. He racked his brain but couldn't figure out what his dad was talking about.

"How long are you going to hang out here in this room?" his father clarified. "You know, your brother's still in that hospital, and he'd really like to see you. He could really use your support on this."

Charlie stared blankly at his dad for a moment before responding. "Yeah, I'm sure it's _my _support he needs. That would be helpful." He turned his gaze down to his lap. "I mean, I _am_ the one who got him into this situation, after all."

"No, Charlie, I don't think you realize." His dad's voice held much more patience and love than Charlie deserved. "If you hadn't been there, if you hadn't been with him, holding him and keeping pressure to slow the bleeding, being there for him—" His dad was struggling to keep his composure. Charlie found he couldn't even look at him. "If it hadn't been for you, we would have lost him, Charlie."

"If it hadn't been for me," Charlie spat, "if it hadn't been for my careless driving and lack of attention to the roads, there would have been no need for any of that."

"Charlie!" His dad sounded desperate, and Charlie could feel a lump forming in his throat as he continued to stare at the floor. "Come on, Charlie, you should know as well as any of us that it could have happened to anyone. You weren't driving carelessly, and I know you were paying attention to the roads. It was really wet outside, you hit a puddle, and your car just couldn't respond in time. It could have just as easily have happened with Don driving, or with me, or anyone."

"Yeah?" Tears leaked out of Charlie's eyes. "And how do you think you'd feel if it had been you driving?"

His dad was silent for a moment, and Charlie thought he'd proven his point. He waited, silently hoping his father would retreat now, leaving Charlie to go back to his work—the only thing that he felt was helping the situation at this point.

"I'd feel like I was the most terrible person alive for letting it happen," his dad finally admitted, his voice low and quiet. "But that doesn't mean it actually _would_ be my fault. And I'd know that I'd have to find a way past the guilt somehow, because I'd know that my son needs me. Your brother needs you, Charlie. He needs all of us, but especially you, Charlie, because you were there. I just don't know how to make you see that."

"I can see everything just fine, Dad," Charlie shot back. "Believe me. Every time I shut my eyes, I can see myself losing control of the car, and then suddenly we're flipping and—and the car just _lying there_ on top of Don, and him in pain, and I—I—can't. I can't do this, Dad."

Suddenly, his dad's strong, solid arms wrapped around his frame, and he collapsed into them.

"Charlie, son, I'm so sorry," his dad was saying. "I'm sorry I haven't really been here for you. I just—your brother—I just needed to be sure that he's going to be okay. And I think he will be, with time, but you know what would speed that process along?"

Charlie remained still, knowing what was coming, but still unable to believe his father's words.

"You coming back with me, now," his father continued. "You, coming back to the hospital and seeing Don. He's just started going to physical therapy, and it's just—it's going to be difficult. He needs us all, Charlie. He needs you."

"I'm sorry, Dad," Charlie choked out. "I just can't do it. Besides, I just really need to get some work done. Please."

He stood up, out of his father's grip, leaving the older man sitting on the couch, his face painted with surprise.

"Oh, Charlie," his dad sighed, exasperated. "I don't think you need to get _more_ work done. But suit yourself." He stood up and started to walk towards the door and Charlie was extremely grateful for that.

"But you should know," his dad continued, "that once Donnie's out of the hospital, Amita, Robin and I decided that if Robin ever has to work during the day before the baby comes, Don's going to come hang out here. So I don't know how avoiding your brother is going to work out for you then."

With that, the door shut, and Charlie was alone.

He stood there, shaking like a leaf. He couldn't even muster the energy to pick up his chalk and resume writing. He was suddenly assaulted by a large wave of nausea. His knees buckled, so he sat down cross-legged, right there in the middle of the floor.

_See what you've caused?_

It wasn't just Don's life he'd ruined. It was everyone's. He'd caused them all so much anguish and pain. And everyone had a right to blame him. Everyone had a right to be angry with him, just like his father had a moment ago when he'd walked out the door, leaving him alone with his own demons.

He could feel the sandwich he'd just eaten start to rise up within him. In alarm, he clamored to his feet. He stumbled to the door, silently praying he'd make it to the bathroom. The last thing he needed was to make a mess all over the upstairs hallway.

By some miracle, he was suddenly kneeling in front of the toilet. Once the sandwich was gone, Charlie kept on retching, but there was nothing left in his stomach to vomit. Finally, he rocked back on his heels and collapsed against the wall. He was shaking so hard and tears were streaming out of his eyes. He couldn't hold back the choking sobs that escaped his throat. And he was still shaking and he could barely even think.

At some point, he became aware of someone holding him and rubbing circles on his back. He leaned into the touch, which somewhere inside he knew he didn't deserve.

"Charlie," his dad's voice was whispering. "I'm so sorry, son. I'm so sorry this is happening. I wish I knew what to do for you. I wish I knew how to make you see that this wasn't your fault, and that you really saved your brother's life."

_A life which only had to be saved because I endangered it. _Charlie nearly growled out loud in frustration, but held himself back. Why couldn't he make anyone understand that?

"Anyone could have been driving that car, Charlie," his father continued. "And I know any of us would feel awful if we had been the ones behind the wheel. I know that. But it doesn't matter. It was pouring rain, okay? The roads were really wet and slippery. There was nothing you could have done differently. You have to believe that, Charlie, you just have to."

Suddenly, Charlie's emotions all turned to mush. It was like each of his feelings were a bright color of paint, and someone had taken each color and smeared them all together in a dull, brown pile of goo. He didn't have a good handle on exactly what it was he thought or felt anymore. Everything his father was saying made sense. Good old Dad. Alan Eppes was surely wiser than Yoda sometimes. But the fear and the shame were shadowing over Charlie's logical side, which was a rare occurrence for the mathematician.

His dad's reassurances were all well and good, but how could he be sure that Don shared the same sentiments?

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Hello! New chapter, yay! Thanks to all my wonderful readers who are still with me. Please read and review!

Chapter 6 (Don)

By the time he returned to his room after his third day of therapy, Don felt sweaty, exhausted, and sick. At this rate, his unborn child would be a teenager by the time Don was strong and mobile enough to leave the hospital.

Robin was waiting for him when he got back. As he was settled back into bed, he looked longingly up at his wife. She'd been gone an hour ago when he'd left for therapy—she'd been at her latest prenatal exam. Don had wanted so badly to go with her. It wasn't like he'd attended all her other doctor's visits, just some, because he'd often been busy with work. But somehow it stung this time, largely because he was stuck in the hospital and _couldn't_ go.

It was just yet another reminder of how difficult the whole thing was. It was another reminder of how ridiculously hard it was going to be to support his wife as she gave birth to their child; of how difficult it was going to be to be a new father of a newborn baby in his current condition.

He put a smile on his face, though. It was the only way he really knew how to cope.

"Hey, sweetheart," he greeted. "How did your appointment with the baby doc go?"

Robin smiled back at him, using one hand to grab his and laying the other one on her belly. "It went fine. Doctor said everything looks great. Only a few more weeks now."

Don sighed, but squeezed Robin's hand. "It's unbelievable."

Robin nodded. "So, how was physical therapy?"

Don grunted in response.

"That bad, huh?" she winced sympathetically.

Don sighed, but then he nodded. He supposed there was really no way to hide his frustration about it, not really. "Yeah, this is going to take forever."

"I know how lame this sounds," said Robin, "but you just have to be patient, Don. This is after all, only your third day. No one expects you to hop out of bed and be ready to go. You were sick for a while, you haven't gained back all your strength yet."

"You're right," Don conceded. "That sounds pretty lame. And I don't expect me to hop out of bed and be ready to go either. I just—it would be nice if I could leave this room for more than a few minutes at a time without becoming so . . . exhausted, you know?"

"I know," Robin soothed while absently played with his hand. "And I know that you're probably more frustrated and upset than you've been telling us. And it's okay, Don."

_Real subtle, Robin,_ Don thought uncharitably. He didn't say anything; he just sat there and concentrating on breathing in and out before he lost control of himself. He couldn't afford to lose control—he feared he'd never get it back.

He suddenly became aware that Robin was rubbing his arm tenderly, lovingly. It felt good, and Don was just so tired. So exhausted. A lump formed in his throat—where had that come from? He swallowed and shut his eyes.

"Don?" came Robin's soft voice. "Hey, Don, are you all right?"

He opened his eyes, which he was dismayed to note felt wetter than usual, and looked up at his wife. "Yeah," he breathed. He blinked a couple times, hoping to clear the burning sensation. "I'm all right."

"Oh, Don," Robin sighed. She got up and then sat herself down on the bed next to Don, slinging an arm around his shoulders and neck. She leaned down as far as her pregnant belly would allow so as to whisper in Don's ear. "I cannot even begin to imagine what this is like for you, you know? I can't imagine what must be going through your head, how you must be feeling, how exhausting it must be. At this point, I'd say you're pretty much entitled to feel anything—no one's going to think any less of you for it."

He had to give Robin something, some tidbit of information on his current state, or else she'd keep asking and then he'd lose it completely.

"I can't," he croaked out. "I can't let myself feel too much about it at all, or I'll never be able to handle it."

Robin nodded in understanding. Don breathed a silent sigh of relief. He appreciated Robin's efforts. He couldn't tell her that they were hurting more than helping, though; he didn't want to hurt her feelings.

He leaned back, letting his head rest against her arm.

"I'm so sorry, sweetie," Robin was saying. "I'm just so sorry it had to be this way. I wish there'd been another way—I—"

Don cut her off. "No. Don't go there, okay? This _is _the way it is. And you shouldn't regret that, because hey, I'm still alive, right? Could be worse."

Robin scoffed. "I don't even want to think about _that._"

Don winced; it was easy to forget sometimes how close to the edge he'd come—how close he'd come to never making it back. At that moment, it made him feel grateful that he was where he was and not dead. At least he wasn't dead.

"Hey, look," he continued, pushing past his own emotions. "I'm going to be just fine, okay? It'll take some work, but I'll get there. Everything's going to be okay."

"Are you reassuring me or yourself?" Robin asked him, point blank.

He settled for the truth. "Both," he admitted. "Trust me, I'm scared as hell." Another wave of emotion crashed over him, and he had to take a deep breath.

They were both silent, each trying to regain control of their emotional states. Robin scooted down so she was sitting at Don's level, and she wrapped both her arms around his shoulders.

"Hey," she whispered into his ear. "Whatever you need me to do for you, just tell me, okay? I just want to do whatever I can to help you through this, okay?"

Don shook his head. He couldn't take it anymore, and the words came spilling out. "No, this isn't right. You're the one having our baby in about eight weeks. You shouldn't have to worry about taking care of me. I should be the one taking care of you." He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. "God damn it. This is not how it's supposed to be."

"I agree," she told him. She reached up towards his head, and began running her fingers through his messy dark hair. "This isn't how it's supposed to be. And I wish it were different, too. But you just said it yourself; this _is _how it is. I wish I could build you a time machine and we could go back and stop this from ever happening."

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't hold his own tears back any longer. He felt them running down his face, but Robin continued to hold him and stroke his hair.

"I just can't believe this happened." His voice broke, and he winced. "How could this be happening? And God, right now? I'm just about to become a father. And you're going to be a new mother. I don't know how I'm supposed help take care of you and the baby when I can't even take care of myself just yet."

"Oh, Don," Robin was crying now, too. "Please don't worry about that. You just help where you can, even if it's just by sitting in a chair and holding our child while she sleeps, okay?"

"I just wish we could wait a little while, you know?" he squeaked out. "I mean I know it's impossible, but I just wish the baby could stay in there a few more months. I mean, I know you don't"—that got a watery chuckle out of his wife—"but seriously. The timing here just makes it all so much worse."

"I know." She leaned her head against his.

He couldn't help it. A couple of sobs escaped his throat, beyond his control. He was grateful to Robin for just sitting there, not saying anything.

"I mean I know I'll be okay," Don eventually continued after several deep breaths. "But, it's just going to be such a long time. I don't know. I just want to know how everything got so messed up in such a short amount of time. I mean, three weeks ago, everything was . . . everything was perfect."

"I know," Robin repeated herself. "I guess this is just how life works, though. Things are good, then they're bad, but then they get good again. You know? I wonder where we'll be a year from now. We'll have a child, and by then she'll be old enough to have her own personality."

"Hey," Don interrupted. "You keep referring to the baby as a 'she'. You didn't go behind my back and find out the sex, did you?"

"No," Robin laughed. "I just have a feeling. But you know tomorrow I'll probably wake up and think she's a boy, so, who knows."

Don smiled in spite of himself. He turned his head slightly to kiss his wife's ear. His smile faded quickly, though. God, he was tired.

"And hey," Robin broke the silence. "You'll be out of here soon. I know how much you hate the hospital. That should make things look better, right?"

Don nodded, fighting back more tears that were threatening to come back in full force because he wasn't so sure that Robin was right.

"Don?" she whispered concernedly. "What is it?"

"It's just, well, you know, you're right," Don fumbled with his words. "I hate being stuck in the hospital. But the same time, it feels safer here, you know? Because as soon as I'm out of here, I'm going to have to really face—have to _really face this_. At least in here, I'm not living my real life anyway. Once I get out there, I'm going to have to go back to real life—but without my leg."

"You're scared," she stated. Yeah, he was scared. That was a bit of an understatement.

He just nodded and leaned further into her. Eventually, he continued talking, much to his dismay. His mouth was like a waterfall, all of a sudden, and he couldn't quite control the words that streamed out of it.

"It just blows my mind," he was saying, almost without thinking. "It's so weird. How, you know, one minute things are just great, and I'm having a good time hanging out with my brother, and then _wham!_ I'm waking up in a hospital bed, one leg short of my normal self. And I was unconscious the whole time—everything was over and done with before I even knew about it."

"I'm so sorry, sweetie," Robin said softly, almost shamefully. "I know. You wish you could have had a little control over your own fate. I wish you could have, too."

_Oh, Robin._ "Hey," he said, a little more forcefully than he meant to. "You're not still feeling bad about this, are you? About, you know, giving consent for the procedure and all? What were you supposed to do? I mean, I would have done the same thing if it had been you, no doubt about it."

"I know, you're right," she said, forcing a smile. "I just would have rather not been the one to have to do it."

"Well, the last thing I need is for you to feel bad," Don told her. The last thing he needed was for anyone to feel guilty about his situation. _Like Charlie._ Man. Charlie. No one could even get the guy to come anywhere near here so that Don could explain to him that there was nothing to feel guilty about. It was just awful. He wondered for a brief moment if anyone else had noticed the way he expectantly looked towards the door every time it opened, secretly hoping against hope that it would be Charlie.

"Yeah, you're right," Robin agreed. "I guess I don't really feel all that bad about it. I mean, if I had to go back and do it all over again, it's not like I would have told the doctors anything different. I mean, you would have died."

Don winced at the way Robin's voice cracked on the word "died." He couldn't think of anything else to say, so he simply wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in close to him. They were both crying a little. Don fleetingly realized how pathetic a picture the two of them made.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" he eventually broke the silence. Robin pulled back, looking at him expectantly. "I mean, if I ask you something, will you tell me the honest truth?" He waited for her nod. "Charlie's—I mean, you and Dad and Amita have all done your best to sugarcoat it, but I can tell—Charlie's feeling pretty awful about this, isn't he?"

Robin sighed, as if she'd known this question was coming. "Yeah. Yeah, he does. Amita said pretty much all he does is lock himself in the solarium and work on his Cognitive Emergence theory all day."

Great. Instead of P vs. NP in a garage, it was Cognitive Emergence theory in a solarium. It was worse than Don had thought. Don had known it was bad, and thought he'd come to a realization of just had bad before, but no. Now it was _really_ starting to sink in. He'd earlier just imagined Charlie sitting at home, maybe starting to go about his normal life now that the head injury was probably healed, and being too afraid of what Don thought of him to come visit. But, no. It sounded like Charlie was in full-blown retreat-from-reality mode—which for some reason that Don now couldn't imagine, hadn't occurred to him would be possible. And here he'd thought Charlie had come along so far in his emotional maturity in the last several years.

He realized his eyes were shut, and he was breathing slowly, at a steady rhythm. He became aware of Robin stroking his hair again, gently. When did she start doing that?

"I'm sorry, Don," she said, softly. "I don't know . . . I guess your dad and Amita have tried talking to him, but I don't really know. I guess he's just having a really hard time with everything."

"Yeah, well, I just wish I could talk to him," Don ground out in frustration. "I could knock some sense into him, so to speak."

It was like a blow to the face, knowing how badly Charlie was taking everything. It was a cherry on top that Don was trapped in a hospital, helpless to fix his own pain, much less his brother's. When did things get so messed up?

He leaned his head against Robin's, wishing that someone _would_ hurry up and invent a time machine—it seemed to be the only way to repair all the damage that had been done to him and his family.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Just so you know, of all the chapters in this story, this one is the one that has been rewritten/reworked the most. And it's not beta'd, so I'd say this chapter is the most likely place where there might be a lot of editing mistakes, just because I've erased and rewritten things in so many spots. But oh well.

Thanks to all of you who have stuck with me so far! I appreciate each and every review I get. You guys have all made me feel pretty good about myself. But I also appreciate those of you who are reading silently in the background too! Here's the next chapter, as always, please read and review!

Chapter 7 (Charlie)

"Amita, there's nothing wrong with me," Charlie insisted. "I just—I'm having a major breakthrough with this, and I just need to work through it. I don't want to lose it by interrupting things too much. Don's fine, he's in the hospital. I think this here requires more of my attention."

Amita scoffed. "Did you honestly just prioritize your work over your family? And you say there's nothing wrong with you."

What was wrong with her? Charlie wished he knew. Why couldn't she understand? She was a mathematician, too. A very bright one, at that. Why didn't she, of all people, understand his need to get his thoughts down and organized? This was the biggest breakthrough he'd ever had on his Cognitive Emergence work. He needed to work and push himself forward, before his ideas were gone forever. His work on this theory had been slow-going enough. Now that he was finally moving on it, he wanted to keep it that way. Don would understand, right? Why couldn't Amita?

"Charlie," Amita sighed, clearly frustrated. "Why is talking to you so impossible lately? You don't even listen to _anything_ anyone says. I might as well go stand outside and talk to the koi pond."

He almost wished she would, because that would mean she'd leave him alone to work. His frustration was growing rapidly. He just needed to _concentrate_, dammit.

"Look, I'm sorry Amita," he ventured. "Now just isn't a good time. Can we talk about this later?"

Amita started at him incredulously, as if he were growing an extra head or something.

"Okay, I guess," she consented. "Let me just say one thing first before I leave, though. I don't want you to think I'm angry with you, Charlie, because I'm not. I'm just concerned about you. I know your impatience to get back to your work isn't really about your work. You're having a hard time dealing with all that's going on with Don, and yourself, and it's okay. You've been through a lot, you know? You were in a serious car accident yourself. Even if you and Don had both walked away from it unscathed, it would still be extremely traumatizing. Us trying to convince you to stop working and go see Don is just us trying to help you get through this and feel better about things. But maybe it's not helping. Maybe . . . maybe I just need to leave you alone to work through this yourself."

Charlie was stunned by her words. They were so accurate, and yet he didn't even know about any of it until the words had left her mouth. It was like every sentence had flicked on a light inside his mind. This whole business with his Cognitive Emergence Theory was indeed his strange way of working through his own shattered and tossed up emotions. It helped, he found. Whether or not it was the best way was debatable, he supposed. But for now, he just wanted to work. And Amita was offering at least a temporary out from this conversation.

"Thanks," he squeaked out, unable to say anything else.

Amita pulled Charlie into a hug, which he awkwardly returned. She pulled away after a few seconds, flashing him a small, sad smile before leaving him alone in the solarium.

* * *

><p>Charlie couldn't ignore his hunger pangs anymore. He wasn't ready to have any serious conversations with anyone about anything, but maybe he could sneak down to the kitchen, grab a quick snack, and sneak back upstairs unnoticed. With any luck, Amita would be busy with something else, anything else. Maybe she wouldn't even know he'd come down.<p>

He'd been avoiding everyone as much as possible the last day or so. Ever since his father had come home last night, wandered silently into the solarium, unnoticed by Charlie at first. His dad, true to his clever ways, had wordlessly pulled out his cell phone and begun dialing. He startled Charlie, telling the youngest Eppes out of the blue that there was someone on the phone who wanted to talk to him. Charlie had been just thrown enough that he couldn't think to turn his father down before the phone was placed in his hand. However, Charlie had figured it out before he brought the phone to his ear and promptly told his father that he couldn't possibly take a break now for a phone call, and handed the phone back. His dad had looked disappointed that his attempts had been thwarted, and had come clean with the obvious fact that it was Don on the phone. Charlie had pretended to ignore his father, insisting that he needed to return to his work.

The crushed look on his father's face was still stuck in his mind. Even now, Charlie wasn't quite sure exactly why he wouldn't even talk to his own brother on the phone - he just knew that he _couldn't_. His father had left the solarium wordlessly, presumably to explain to Don what Charlie had said. Charlie had then thrown himself back into his work, trying to forget what had just happened.

Charlie felt awkward each of the three or so times he'd run into anyone since then, unable to explain his own actions. He figured they were all angry with him for refusing to even _talk_ to his brother, but he just . . . hadn't been able to.

He took the stairs one at a time, trying his best to remain silent. He had one clear advantage on his side—the fact that he'd lived in house for all but just a few years of his life. Thirty-some years spent here taught Charlie which parts of which steps squeaked the most, and where he should put his feet in order to avoid creating too much noise.

By the time he was halfway down the stairs, his feet were exposed to anyone who might be in the dining room. He crouched down, peering through the banister to make sure no one was seated at the large table. He was in the clear so far.

He rushed down the last half of the stairs, still going for quiet. He made it all the way to the swinging door to the kitchen and inside without incident.

Okay, now. What did he want? He'd become a little soured on turkey sandwiches after having puked one up five days ago. His father hadn't been home much recently other than in the late evenings and hadn't cooked, so there weren't any leftovers in the fridge. On a whim, he opened the freezer. Hmm. Frozen waffles. The people living in this house weren't usually the types to eat pre-packaged, frozen waffles, but then it hadn't been a normal last few weeks. Didn't seem like a bad idea, though. He pulled the box out, took two thin waffles out of the packaging, and plopped them in the toaster. He let his mind wander while he waited for his waffles to cook.

It occurred to Charlie all of a sudden that he hadn't seen or spoken to his brother in three weeks, not including the few minutes he'd seen Don's sick, unconscious form struggling to survive in the small, dark hospital room. Thinking about it, Charlie guessed the last time he'd ever gone that long without even speaking to his older brother, including the time he and Amita spent in England, was before their mother got sick. In all honesty, Charlie missed his brother.

The thought of actually going and seeing his brother put knots in his stomach. He had tried so hard not to think about how Don felt about him and what happened, ever since he'd talked to his father and subsequently thrown up in the toilet. And he'd been fairly successful, too, with the exception of maybe last night-but even then he'd done an okay job of blocking it all out. It was almost as if he couldn't quite get a handle on how he felt anymore. His previously strong and powerful emotions had faded quietly in the background, and Charlie just felt numb. It was almost as if he couldn't remember how to work up his feelings of guilt to the level they had been at five days ago.

That wasn't to say the guilt had left him entirely. Charlie had half-realized that it was still there, and it was still the core of all of his current problems.

Deep down, Charlie longed desperately to see Don, and talk to him. He secretly regretted not taking the phone call last night. But the fear of his older brother not forgiving him—his fear of his brother's rejection—had made the act of visiting Don in the hospital seem impossible.

And the longer Charlie went not visiting Don in the hospital, the more difficult it became to consider doing so.

Everything was so messed up, and Charlie was tired.

Pop.

The waffles were done, pulling Charlie from his thoughts. Before he reached the toaster, he stopped dead in his tracks at the creaking of the kitchen door being swung open.

"Charlie," his father's voice called from the doorway. "I'm surprised to see you down here."

"I was hungry," Charlie mumbled, barely above a whisper. "But now I don't know if I am anymore. You want these waffles?"

"No, thanks," his dad said. "Robin's out here though; she might want them. She was starving when we got here—you know, must be the whole eating-for-two thing, I guess."

Robin was here? That hadn't happened yet. From what Charlie gathered, Robin had spent all her time either at the hospital or at her and Don's place. He hadn't seen her since he'd been released from the hospital, either.

Wordlessly, he pulled the waffles out of the toaster, tossing them onto a plate and handed them to his father.

"Come out here with me, Charlie," his dad requested. "Come on, just for a minute. I want to talk to you, and I don't care what else you have to do. You're going to come out here and just listen, okay?"

His father started through the door, and Charlie rolled his eyes. _Here we go again._ He sighed, but he followed anyways.

"Hey, Charlie," Robin greeted with a smile that didn't reach her eyes at all. Dad set down the waffles, along with some maple syrup that Charlie hadn't seen him grab, in front of Robin. She smiled her thanks at him and started eating.

"Have a seat, Charlie," his dad said, watching him expectantly.

Charlie was confused. What was going on? Dad and Robin were here, forcing him to sit and talk to them. And where was Amita? He was sort of feeling a little ambushed. Was this an intervention?

Okay, that last question may have been a bit of an overreaction, but really. _What are Dad and Robin up to?_

"What's going on?" he asked tentatively, eyeing his father carefully.

"Charlie, I know you'll probably just insist you have work to do," his dad began. _Here it comes._ "But I'd really like you to reconsider coming down to the hospital. Amita and I have told you a million times already . . . but Don really wants to see you. He _really_ does. I can't stress how much."

"No," Robin interrupted. "Actually, Charlie, Don _needs_ to see you. He needs to be sure you're all right. We keep telling him that you're fine, but you know him, he needs to see for himself."

Charlie remained silent; he was unsure of how to respond.

"Charlie, you're not still feeling responsible for this, are you?" His father sounded genuinely concerned, but Charlie could detect a note of exhaustion there that he could relate to. "Come on, you have to see that there wasn't anything you could have done differently. And I've said this once already, but I'll say it again as many times as I have to. If it weren't for you, Don probably would have died. Okay? You saved his life."

Heaving a big sigh, Charlie looked down at his lap to play with his hands. All these things people kept telling him made so much logical sense—but it just did not fit at all with his own thinking. It was just so confusing. He wished he could make better sense of it all.

"Charlie." Charlie snapped his head up to find the source of the voice. It was Amita, who had randomly materialized in the doorway of the dining room.

"Charlie, come on, you're a mathematician," Amita was saying. "Look at all the data. The rain, the surface you were driving on and how fast it became too slick, the mass of the car, the angle of the turn you were taking. And so on. If we absolutely have to—if you don't believe us, we can get you this data, and you can work this out yourself. You couldn't have done anything differently to change the outcome of what happened."

He had to give her credit. She sure knew him extremely well. It was a little difficult to tell if she was being serious or if she was just trying to prove a point. But either way, he smiled a little.

"These are good waffles," Robin suddenly commented. "I mean, for toaster waffles, anyway. Charlie, I hope you don't feel like we're ambushing you. I just think there's something you don't quite understand, and I'd like to take a shot at explaining it to you."

Her cool demeanor made Charlie's head spin. His sister-in-law's words were delivered so matter-of-factly. It was as if once she'd casually complemented the waffles, an everyday subject, her tone had been stuck in everyday conversation mode. He was amazed; how was she so calm?

"I just—I want you to know something," she continued, probably once she realized Charlie wasn't going to verbally respond. "I don't really know myself how you've been. I mean, I haven't really seen you lately. But Alan and Amita have told me a lot—they said you've been feeling pretty bad about everything."

"I think I have pretty good reason to," Charlie snapped. He realized he wasn't being entirely fair, but he couldn't stop himself. "I know it was raining and I know the roads were wet and slippery, but it doesn't matter. And I know it could have happened to anyone, but it didn't! I _was_ the one driving. And I mean, we all know that I'm not the greatest driver in the world. Something like this was bound to happen eventually."

And just like that, all the thoughts in Charlie's head were clear again, and he knew exactly where he stood again.

They all stared at him, stunned into silence. Robin, Dad, Amita. They all looked at him, unsure what to say next. Maybe he'd finally made them understand. Maybe he'd won this battle. Maybe they'd leave him alone to punish himself now.

But no, his dad broke the silence after a moment. "Charlie, you can sit there and tell us that all you want, but there is still one thing that doesn't change, son. And that's that Don does not blame you. He doesn't, okay? Now, Charlie, I love you, and I just want you to feel better about this and yourself, because I'm worried. It's been a difficult time to be a father, let me tell you. I've got one son who's locked himself in his own home, letting his guilt over something he shouldn't feel guilty about literally eat him up inside to the point where he can't listen to logic and reason despite the fact that he's a _mathematician_ trained in logic and reason. Meanwhile, I've got another son stuck in the hospital who's suddenly found himself with a permanent physical handicap that's going to change his life. And he's wondering why his own brother hasn't even come to visit him in the nearly three weeks he's been there and frankly, I don't know what to tell him, because I wonder why, too."

"I'm sorry, Dad, I really am." Charlie couldn't stop the tears that were coming down now. It was like it was raining down his face again, just like in all the nightmares he'd had lately. "I just can't get it out of my head that it's my fault and that Don should blame me."

"Well, he doesn't," Robin jumped in. Previously she had been the epitome of calm and collected, but now she was close to tears as well. "He doesn't at all, no one does. If Don had been driving and you had ended up in the hospital, would you blame him?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Okay. No. You wouldn't," she interrupted, and Charlie felt as if he were being cross-examined by AUSA Robin Brooks instead of being persuaded by his sister-in-law. "And neither does Don. Charlie, do you realize what this is doing to him? I had this conversation with him the other day, and everything clicked in my head then. He's already so scared and frustrated that he doesn't even bother to hide it. Which we all know is not like him at all. He's emotional. And when he asked about you, I told him everything I knew, and he just seemed to crumple. Right there in front of me; I thought he was going to pass out."

Charlie hoped she realized how much this _wasn't _helping him. So far, he was just feeling top of everything else, he'd caused Don some extra emotional anguish.

"Don't you see, Charlie?" she continued after taking a moment to collect herself. "You blaming yourself so vehemently is making him feel worse about everything. You may feel like this is your fault, and that Don should blame you, but face it. He doesn't. He's feeling guilty too, although he won't admit it, because he feels responsible for you feeling like this." She laughed bitterly. "It's amazing how much alike you two really are. You _have _to go see him, Charlie. It's the only way to make yourself feel better. It's the only way to make _Don_ feel better."

So much for clarity; Charlie's head was spinning again. With numbers, this time, quickly assigning values to his beliefs and weighing them against what Robin, his dad, and Amita were telling him.

He looked up, searching the desperate faces of his family. Their gazes were piercing. They were silent, except for the occasional watery sniffle from Robin. They were waiting for him to respond, to give them an answer. He felt himself panicking, panicking like he hadn't since his brother had been pinned by his totaled Prius.

His mind was flashing back and forth between the three people in front of him, and images of his brother's broken and bloodied body, eyes silently begging for his help. His breathing and heart rate quickened; he was floundering. Don was in trouble, and Charlie was the only one who could save him.

His family flinched when he slapped himself loudly on the forehead, bringing himself back to reality.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I'm so sorry. I need to fix this. Right now, let's go." Before he had a chance to even think about what he was doing, he abruptly rose from the table. His father, Amita, and Robin were right behind him as he made a bee-line towards the front door. The four of them left, leaving a half-eaten plate of waffles sitting abandoned on the dining room table.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Imagine a deep, booming announcer's voice saying this: _And now, the moment you've all been waiting for._ ha. I've given you all this chapter a few hours earlier than I normally would for two reasons: 1. Because you've all been such awesome readers, and some of you have left some really thoughtful reviews that made me feel really good inside, so this is a reward for you. and 2. Because I'm a college kid and it's a Friday night and so it's doubtful I'll see my computer again until sometime tomorrow so I didn't want to make you wait _longer_ than normal. Ha.

Enjoy this chapter, and as always, please read and review!

Chapter 8 (Don)

Other than in the beginning, before Don was really coherent, no one from his old team had come by to visit much. It was understandable; they had spent the last couple weeks shutting down a potentially major terrorism threat. So it was nice that, since Robin and his father were off doing Don wasn't sure what, Colby and Nikki stopped by to keep him entertained.

It was a tad bit awkward at first. Understandable, Don supposed again, because if one of them had had _their_ leg smashed off by a car, he probably wouldn't know what to say to them either. But after the awkward pleasantries had been exchanged, the three of them fell into a comfortable and companionable rhythm.

Colby had brought along a chess board, and the two were trying their hand at teaching Nikki to play. Eventually, with Don clearly the strongest of the three players, Colby and Nikki tag-teamed to try and defeat him. So far, much to Don's enjoyment, the two had not been successful. The two-on-one nature of the game put him in mind of times past when he and his father used to team up against Charlie. Right now, he'd give anything to go back to those days.

"Come on, Colby," Nikki teased, "you should have known that a man who grew up with a math genius brother would probably bring a pretty good game."

Don grinned. "Yeah, that might be true. But it was actually years of playing against my dad as a kid that sharpened my skills. Charlie didn't like playing against me very much for some reason. I'm not sure why, it's not like I gloat when I win—much."

"Still, I thought I was decent," Colby complained. "I learned to play in the Army, and I thought I got pretty good at it, but I think Don's pretty much shot down all my chess pride by now."

"Well who have you been playing against since you got out of the Army?" Nikki wondered. "David? Cause we all know how much he sucks."

Don snorted a little. "Yeah, Nikki, you've only been playing chess for what, an hour and a half now? I'm pretty sure you're already better than David."

"Don't worry, I won't tell him you said that," Colby said, his voice a mock warning tone. Then he grew serious. "By the way, Don, speaking of David, I talked to him the other day. He sends his best, and if you needed anything from him, don't hesitate to call."

Don nodded, unsure of what to say. These were the kind of awkward moments that he wasn't good at handling. Another negative byproduct of everything that had happened.

"Eh, it probably doesn't matter," Nikki cut in. Don was thankful to the young woman for saving him from having to respond. "He's probably got enough people taking care of him between his dad, his wife, and his brother. Poor guy's probably feeling smothered already."

"Well, two out of three anyway," Don let slip before he could stop himself. Once he saw Colby and Nikki eyeing him with curiosity, he knew he had to continue that thought. "Well, you know, Charlie's still kind of recovering from everything, too. He hasn't been around so much." He was fairly impressed with how vague he'd kept his tone of voice; he was glad he didn't give too much away.

However, Colby didn't seem fooled at all. "He's feeling guilty, huh?"

Don chuckled mirthlessly. "It would seem that way. Not that I would know, I haven't actually seen the guy."

"What?" Nikki was surprised. "He hasn't even been by once?"

Don simply stared at her in response.

"Damn," Colby muttered, just barely loud enough for Don to hear. "I'm sorry, man. If you need us to do anything, like if you want us to talk to him or something, just let us know. We'll do whatever." He looked to Nikki for confirmation, and she nodded.

"Yeah, Boss, whatever you need," she assured. "Even if you just need us to drag his sorry ass in here by force and in handcuffs, we can do that, too."

_Some things never change._ Don couldn't help but crack a smile at Nikki's bluntness, as well as the way she still called him "boss" even though he hadn't been her immediate supervisor for over a year now.

"I appreciate the offer guys," he said, "but I think I'm just going to let him work through this on his own. I mean, Dad and Amita have been working on it."

They fell silent after that, none of them saying much for awhile beyond their chess-related communications. Don felt he couldn't say much more to them regarding Charlie. He'd seen in their eyes and heard in their voices how much they were willing to go to bat for him on the matter—and he was more appreciative than he could express.

He could feel the exhaustion coming on again—the exhaustion he'd recently realized had come partially from experiencing too many inexpressible emotions. Not that he was the type to show any outward signs of feeling anything anyway, but it still just seemed so frustrating that he didn't know how. He didn't really know how to tell anyone how scared he was, or how angry he was at himself, and at life in general. And even a little at Charlie, for not even giving him a chance to reassure his younger brother that no blame was to be taken. It wasn't like Don could hop in the car, drive over to Charlie's house, corner him, and talk to him. He was completely stuck where he was—because despite several days now of intense physical therapy, he could still hardly move without serious outside help.

And he was inexplicably grateful to Colby and Nikki for coming here and entertaining him. He claimed he didn't need a baby-sitter all the time at the hospital—but secretly he was brimming with gratitude that his family and friends had all pitched into make sure he never had to sit there in his bed, alone and brooding. Although he would never admit it out loud.

"Your move, Boss," Nikki said, and Don realized he'd been spacing out.

"Right, sorry," he muttered, turning his attention back to the game. He studied the board carefully. Nikki and Colby had apparently tried to set a trap, but what they didn't seem to know is he had a plan B for just such a situation. He pretended to be fooled, moving his bishop to capture their knight.

Nikki and Colby shared a quick, smug glance. They thought they'd fooled him. Without hesitation, Nikki knocked over his bishop, and Don's trap was set. Only a few more moves now.

Before they'd gotten a chance to get that far, however, the door to Don's room swung open. His father walked in, looking exhausted.

"Colby, Nikki," the eldest Eppes greeted with a smile. "It's good to see you two. Thanks for coming by and spending some time with Donnie."

"Hey, Alan," said Colby, standing up to shake the older man's hand. "Don's just been giving us some chess lessons."

Don smiled a small smile. He tried to shift a little in the bed—sometimes after sitting up in the same position for too long, his lower back got stiff. It was difficult, though. He wasn't used to the inequality of mass from his left side of his lower body to the right side. Eventually, he just gave up.

"Hey Dad," he said, focusing his attention on his father. "Robin with you?"

"Yeah, Donnie, she's outside," his father answered vaguely. Don got the impression that there was something his dad was trying not to tell him, which sent alarm bells ringing in his head. Something was up. He felt a flash of fear, hoping nothing was wrong with Robin or the baby.

"Excuse me, Colby, Nikki," his dad continued. "Would you mind giving me a moment with Donnie?"

"Oh, yeah," Colby responded. "Uh, we'd probably better be getting back to the office anyway, huh Nik? We left Liz holding down the fort at the office—not that there was much going on there anyways. One of those rare quiet days. But yeah. We'll see you later Don."

"Bye guys, thanks for hanging out for awhile," Don replied automatically, almost without thinking.

"See ya, Don," Nikki said. "Bye, Mr. Eppes."

"Thank you," his dad said with a smile. "And for the last time, it's Alan!"

The door had barely clicked shut before Don was ready to lay into his father for answers. "What's going on, Dad?" He was looking up intensely at his father, his eyes searching the older man's.

"Don't worry, Donnie, it's nothing bad," his dad assured him as he came around to sit on the edge of Don's bed. "I just wanted to give you a heads up, first. We, uh, well, we managed to get your brother here." He stopped, and Don let the words sink in.

"What?" he breathed. "Charlie's here? Now?" He paused to think. Charlie had come? By this point, Don had pretty much given up hope. Everything had seemed fairly hopeless lately. He shook that thought off; that wasn't the point. The point was that apparently Charlie had a sudden change of heart . . . or something. "How's he doing?"

"Well, to be honest, Donnie, I have no idea how this is going to go." Don noticed that his father was trying really very hard not to look him in the eyes, which scared him more than anything else. "Just . . . you know, be careful what you say. Charlie's not at all in a good place."

"Don't worry, Dad," Don lay a hand on his father's arm. "I know Charlie. I know how he can get, and I'm pretty sure I know what not to say to him. Please, just . . . bring him in, okay?"

"All right, Donnie," his father conceded. "I'll go send him in."

With that, Dad had opened the door and left Don alone. _Charlie's here._ After two and a half weeks of wondering where he was, he'd finally come. All this time, no one had really wanted to discuss this issue with Don. Until Robin had been mostly honest with him about it a couple days ago. He wondered what he'd say to his younger brother—what _could_ he say?

He understood why Charlie hadn't been there. He understood perfectly well, he was pretty sure. But it didn't change how Don felt about it. He was a little hurt by his brother's absence—why couldn't Charlie put his own goddamn ego aside, realize how wrong he was, and come by? Most of the time, when Don was ill or injured, he'd rather be left alone to lick his wounds in privacy. This time had been a little different, though. Being alone left Don to think about the uncertainty of his future. He liked having as many of his loved ones around as possible to make him feel like things were normal.

But it was a little hard to feel normal when his own brother had refused to come see him.

The door squeaked open and Don's head snapped up expectantly. Slowly, the form of Don's younger brother began to form fully in the doorway. Don swallowed as he sized his brother up. Charlie's appearance was ragged, to say the least. The man looked like he hadn't slept in days. His hair was unkempt, his face unshaven.

The two of them shared a long, meaningful gaze. All of Don's earlier feelings of being abandoned or betrayed by his brother dissipated quickly. Charlie's eyes were bloodshot; whether from crying or simple exhaustion, Don was unsure, but he guessed maybe both. The look in Charlie's eyes was odd, Don noted. Behind the layers of exhaustion and apparent defeat was something a little more difficult to detect? Fear? No, not really fear, more like apprehension. Maybe a little shame? Possibly shame, a thought which broke Don's heart. Guilt? Oh, definitely some of that.

"Charlie," Don finally whispered to the man in the doorway. "Hey, Charlie, it's really good to see you."

Charlie didn't say anything. Instead he slowly moved into the room from the doorway. Don watched him reach a shaky hand up to rub his face. The older man decided against speaking again. It might be best to wait for Charlie to speak to him. Instead, he just watched Charlie very carefully.

Eventually, Charlie seemed to have worked up enough nerve to speak. "Donnie," he squeaked, slowly approaching Don. "I don't know—I can't even . . . I . . . I just—well, I . . . I'm so sorry, Don!"

Watching his brother, Don became unsure if he had the strength to handle this. _I can't take care of me yet, Charlie, how do you expect me to take care of you?_ He wished that just one thing in this whole, awful mess could be not so impossibly difficult.

"Aw, Charlie," he breathed. He reached his arm out towards his brother, waiting until his hand was grasped. "Come here, buddy."

Charlie sat down in the chair that, moments before, was occupied by Colby. "Don, I can't even tell you," he started. "I can't even _begin_ to tell you how sorry I am. I mean, for everything. For the accident, for what happened. And I've just been so damn selfish. I should have just come and talked to you about it right away, but instead I just stayed at home and made you wonder when really, I should have just faced the music a long time ago, because here you are and I can't even imagine what you're already going through and then—"

"Charlie," Don finally had to interrupt. His brother was rambling, and it wasn't doing any good. "Charlie. Hey. Let me talk for a second, okay?" He waited until his brother nodded, and then he continued. "Okay. First of all, I don't blame you for any of this. This is not your fault. I mean, I know. If it had been me driving and you ending up in here, I'd feel like just crawling in a hole and never coming out again. And you know damn well that if the roles were reversed here, you wouldn't be blaming me at all, would you?"

Charlie chuckled, much to Don's surprise. "That's exactly what Robin asked me. And I told her, no I wouldn't blame you."

"All right, so we'd both be needlessly feeling guilty," Don stated logically. "So there's just no point to this, right? Okay? You don't have anything to be sorry about."

"You're right," Charlie agreed, although his lack of conviction was clearly portrayed with the tears that were starting to fall. "But I don't think I'll ever be able to stop feeling guilty completely. But I can't believe I let it get to the point where I couldn't even come see you, Don, I'm sorry. I should have known that you wouldn't blame me, I was just afraid that you would, and I'm sorry. I should have given you more credit than that. I'm so, so, so sorry."

"Aw, Chuck," Don whispered. His own throat kept tightening, the tears threatening to fall. "You can always come talk to me, even if you think I'm going to be mad. You know that, right?"

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, I do. I don't know. Somehow, the longer I stayed away from here, the harder it got to make myself come. I'm sorry. I really should have been here. I should have been here for you; this has to be so hard. I can't even imagine."

Don sighed shakily. There was really no point in being anything but honest here. "Yeah, buddy, it's really hard. The physical therapy, the sitting here all day, the wishing I could just go home and sleep in my own bed, the not knowing what's going to happen after I get out of here—yeah, it's hard. But the hardest thing has been knowing my brother was at home feeling responsible for all of it—and not being able to help him. So, I'm just really glad you finally made it here, buddy."

Charlie nodded slowly. "I'm just sorry I added to everything else you're already dealing with."

"I know," Don said, "but just know that I don't blame you for anything about any of this, okay?" He patted Charlie awkwardly on the arm as his brother nodded. Charlie was crying pretty openly now, and Don felt pretty close to tears himself.

The whole thing, every moment of the last two-and-a-half weeks had just been so messy, and Don was tired. In fact, he was developing a bit of a headache because everything, including this conversation, had just been so hard.

"Come here, buddy," Don said, hardly thinking. He pulled Charlie's arm towards him and pulled his younger brother into an awkward hug. "It's tough, I know. This is just a bad thing that happened, but it's going to be okay, all right? I'm going to be fine. I need you to know that, okay?"

Charlie nodded into Don's shoulder. "I know you are Don. I know you'll be okay. And if you ever need me to remind you of that, I will."

"Thanks, Chuck," Don said with a smile, pulling back out of the hug. "Heh. Look at us. We actually went ahead and had the conversation we needed to as soon as you got here. Normally we probably just would have made really awkward small talk for awhile."

Charlie snorted. "Yeah, well, these are hardly normal circumstances."

_Yeah._ Except they were going to have to be now. He looked back down at the spot on the bed where his leg should have been. Things weren't ever going back to the way they used to be. But maybe now he'd at least have the support of his brother.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

All righty everyone, we are getting down to it. Only one more chapter after this one. These last two turned out to be my favorite two chapters . . . which is sort of funny about this chapter, because I wrote this chapter during a three-hour long layover in the Seattle airport when I was super sick and dosed up on an unnatural amount of cold meds. Apparently those conditions lead to me writing what I think is some of my best work!

Anyways, enjoy this chapter as always, and please read and review as always! You guys are awesome.

Chapter 9 (Charlie)

A small part of Charlie was aware that he had probably gone too far the other way in over-smothering Don, but he preferred it because he felt much less guilty that way. He spent almost all of his time at the hospital for the next couple weeks until Don was released. He hadn't even touched his Cognitive Emergence work since the day of that first visit.

Even after finally leaving the hospital after nearly a month, Don was unable to do much. For awhile, he didn't leave his and Robin's house much other than back to the hospital for rehab, but Charlie and their father both had no problem going over there nearly every day—and Don and Robin seemed to enjoy the company.

By now, Don had been at home for nearly two weeks. Robin was only a couple weeks away from being due to give birth. Things were changing rapidly.

Today, Charlie had been taken on the responsibility of picking Don up from the hospital after what was sure to have been another grueling round of physical therapy. It was awful, Charlie felt, because he'd vowed to himself that from that day at the hospital on, he'd try so hard to help his brother no matter what. And he could see how exhausted and drained Don always was after a rehab session, but he didn't know _how_ to help. He didn't know what to say or do to make his brother feel like everything would be okay again.

Don was too tired to say much until he was situated in the front seat of Amita's red Volkswagen—which Charlie was now using due to the death of his Prius. Pretty soon after Don had been released from the hospital, Amita and their father had forced Charlie to start driving again, knowing how nervous he was to get behind the wheel again. He'd done okay; it had only taken him a time or two to feel reasonably comfortable driving. He'd actually been a little surprised about how not hard it had been.

Except now. He stuck the key in the ignition, but he froze before he could turn on the engine. A flashback crashed down on him, sweeping him quickly away from reality.

* * *

><p><em>He'd just gotten the engine running and was immediately moving his hand to the windshield wiper knob. The blades swept back and forth quickly, but they couldn't keep up with the powerful rain. <em>

_Charlie looked over to Don, who shrugged. He put the car in reverse to back out of the long driveway. Another of Aunt Irene's birthdays had come and gone; thankfully it was over. Don and Charlie had come together separate from their father—he'd had to come early to help set up, but Don and Charlie had been working, thank goodness. Somehow, Amita and Robin had wriggled their way out of attending the occasion altogether. Lucky them._

_They drove away from Aunt Irene's old house, thankful to be departing. The ride started out in a comfortable silence. _

"_Man, this is nasty," Charlie commented quietly. He was leaning forward slightly, as if that would help him see better through the streams of water sloshing down the windshield. _

"_Yeah," Don snorted in agreement. "I haven't seen it rain this bad here for a long time."_

"_Amita and I went to Scotland over the summer while we were living in Cambridge," Charlie shared, "It was pretty much just like this the whole time we were there. Made it a little difficult to actually see much of the country."_

"_Yeah, I bet," Don was laughing. "Probably were looking at the ground every time you were walking outside."_

"_Pretty much," Charlie said. "So I still haven't seen much of Scotland, except the pavement in some of the cities. But you know, we did ride in cars sometimes, but that looked just like this."_

"_Kinda like a wet painting," Don described. "Everything looks kind of mixed together."_

"_Yeah," Charlie agreed. _

_They sat in a companionable silence for a few more minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. Later, Charlie would be unable to remember what he'd been pondering so carefully, other than the wet road. But the brothers just sat, enjoying each other's company. It wasn't often anymore that the two of them went places together without anyone else. Charlie relished in his brother's comfortable presence. _

"_Charlie, you're drifting a little," Don warned suddenly. Charlie had realized this the instant before the words had left his brother's mouth. His Prius had suddenly crossed the center line, despite Charlie's efforts to keep it in the correct lane. He pulled the wheel harder to the right, and the little car complied easily._

"_Sorry," he mumbled, a little embarrassed at his momentary lapse in attention._

"_It's all right, you're good." Don brushed his words off. "Roads are just a little slick. Just be extra careful."_

"_Don't worry, I will," Charlie assured him. _

_A bend loomed up ahead. Charlie made sure to brake early and smoothly—he didn't want a repeat of his near-miss seconds before. He snuck a quick glance towards his brother. Don looked relaxed; Charlie felt a little less nervous at his brother's apparent confidence in his driving abilities. _

_He turned the wheel gently to the right, pleased when the Prius entered a well-controlled right turn. The rain gusted harder. Charlie was surprised; he wasn't even sure that was possible. _

_Damn. The rear of the car suddenly seemed to be acting independently of Charlie's actions on the steering wheel. He wrestled, but the car drifted back into the other lane. He slammed on the brakes reflexively. _

_The guard rail raced up towards them, and Charlie didn't have time to figure out what to do. _

"_Charlie, watch out!" Don was sitting up in his seat. "Charlie!"_

* * *

><p>"Charlie!"<p>

Don was leaning forward in his seat, looking at him concernedly. "Hey, buddy, you okay?"

"Yeah," Charlie gasped. When did he start breathing so heavily?

He noticed how light it was in the car. The sun was shining brightly; it made him squint. Don was still looking at him, but why?

"Charlie." Don reached across to squeeze his shoulder. "What's going on buddy?"

Don was really concerned. Charlie racked his brain, trying to figure out what was happening. He wanted to give Don an answer, to reassure him that everything was fine. He looked around, out the windshield. Oh, they were in front of the hospital. Right. That made sense. He was here to pick Don up from physical therapy.

He took a deep breath. "Yeah," Charlie exhaled. "Uh, nothing. I was just, you know, thinking. It's just . . . well, it's been awhile. Since we've gone anywhere together. In a car. You know?"

Charlie watched realization creep up on Don's face. He found it a little funny, because he was a little unsure of what exactly was going on or what he was saying, but Don seemed to know perfectly. Don was calm, his face a picture of quiet understanding.

"Yeah," he muttered. "Sure has been." He looked Charlie square in the eye. Charlie was taken aback by the strange mixture of pain, strength, and acceptance radiating from his brother's eyes. "We need this, though. Okay? We'll be fine. You're fine. Now drive."

Charlie finally turned on the engine, but he hesitated after that. He stole a glance over at Don again, taking in the sight of his brother, alive. It could have been worse, he told himself, not for the first time. Don could have died. It could have been worse. He scanned Don's form up and down, his eyes finally resting on Don's one leg that was extended down to the floor of the car.

Damn.

Last time Charlie had driven Don somewhere, it had resulted in the older Eppes brother now sitting there with only one leg—one foot, five toes total, one ankle, one knee. He couldn't do this. He turned off the engine.

"Charlie," Don soothed. "Hey, come on. What's up? Obviously you're not okay. Just tell me what's going on."

"I don't know—I can't seem to—I just . . ." he trailed off, breathing heavily. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Charlie feared that Don would think him weak, like a baby. He couldn't hold himself together. He tried again, forcing his voice to convey confidence he didn't feel. "I don't know, Don. I just can't stop thinking about it. Somehow it got into my head, and I can't get rid of it. I can't stop remembering what it was like that day, and I can't do this."

He couldn't bring himself to look at Don's face, but Charlie heard his brother sigh. "Charlie," Don breathed. "Hey, it's fine. I understand. You know, everyone keeps telling me over and over again how they can't imagine how hard this is for me, but hey. I gotta think this is pretty difficult for you, too."

_Damn it, Don._ Why did Don always have to know exactly what to say, and why did he always end up having to put his own personal issues aside to help Charlie deal with his? Charlie just wished once and for all, that he could be better at dealing with his own problems. And that he could help Don with his, just once, instead of the other way around. But it was always this way. It always seemed like Don knew what was up with Charlie better than Charlie himself did. He couldn't really stop the tears that started to fall, much to his dismay. He tried to wipe them away quickly, before Don saw, but who was he kidding? It was pretty obvious.

"I don't even remember the accident," Don continued. "I don't even remember most of that day, really. So, you know, I don't even have to deal with remembering that, or having nightmares about that, or having flashbacks back to it like I'm guessing you just did. But, you know, if it's too much . . . if you can't do this right now, you know, just me and you in the car, it's okay. We can call Dad; I'm sure he'd come pick us up."

Charlie's head whipped up to face his brother. He was speechless. Was he really that obvious? Was he really that much of an open book? Don could sure read him like one, that's for sure. He squirmed a little; he felt a bit self-conscious.

"No," he said, with a lot more resolve than he felt, hoping Don would take the hint and leave him alone. "No, I'll be fine. Sorry. We should go."

"Wait, Charlie." Don stopped him. "I'm serious. You don't have to hold it together with me. Really."

Charlie scoffed. "What? _I_ don't have to hold it together with _you_? What, do you think I'm made of glass? Well, okay, you're probably right, because I did spend two and a half weeks in the house avoiding you and everything else that reminds me of the accident. But that's not my point. What I'm trying to say is that _you_ shouldn't feel like you have to hold it together with _me._ I mean, you're the one who was seriously injured. You're the one whose life was thrown upside-down, you know? You're the one who actually has the right to show a little weakness."

Much to Charlie's chagrin, Don actually smiled, although the expression lacked any real joy.

"I can't do that, Charlie," Don quietly admitted. "If I do, I know I will completely fall apart."

The brutal honesty in Don's voice took Charlie's breath away. That, combined with the downcast and almost hopeless look on his older brother's face, nearly made him dizzy. He'd never heard Don sound so raw and scared before. It frightened him a little; it tore at his heart as he realized once again how much pain Don had to be in, emotionally speaking. It was an area in which Charlie had always so desperately wanted to help his brother—but now that he had the opportunity, he was sure he'd screw it up.

He didn't know what to say. He settled for an awkward pat on Don's shoulder, which got a small smile from the older man.

"Look at the mess we've gotten into, huh?" Don laughed. The humor fell flat though; Charlie couldn't bring himself to acknowledge the statement. Don continued anyway, this time in seriousness. "I mean, it's like we were sucked into a tornado and now we've been spit out and everything's still there, but it's all kind of jumbled around somehow, you know?"

"Hell of a way to describe it," Charlie thought aloud.

"It's true, though," Don went on. "I mean, you know, dealing with this—dealing with losing my leg and everything—it's completely taken over my life, and none of it's the same anymore. Like how Robin's still just about to have a baby and I'm still just about to be a dad . . . that's something that should be really big, but it's being overshadowed by all this. I was _so ready_ to be a father before, but now I'm just not. I don't even know how things are going to be. And other things feel weird, too. I mean, you and I sure aren't the same as we used to be."

"I'm sorry," Charlie cut in before Don could continue. "That's my fault. I should have been there. I shouldn't have stayed at home for so long. I just—"

"Stop, Charlie," Don interrupted, and Charlie felt like an ass. Here Don was, pouring his heart out to him, and he was completely ill-equipped. He couldn't help but pour out his own emotions, burying Don's back down beneath the surface.

"Charlie," Don repeated, "I told you not to feel bad about that, okay? That has nothing to do with what I'm saying here. I was going to say that _none_ of my relationships feel the same anymore. Not with you, or with Robin, or even with Dad. It's like no one knows how to treat me anymore. It's weird."

It was true, Charlie realized. Sometimes, he didn't know how to treat Don. Charlie had seen his brother handle some pretty difficult events, but this was different. He didn't know if Don wanted silent support, or someone encourage him, or someone with whom he could pretend things had never happened. Charlie suspected that was the case with their dad and Robin, too. Don was so difficult to read sometimes. And yet, Don was opening up now and letting Charlie see inside. Something Charlie was determined not to screw up.

"Yeah," he eventually muttered, but he couldn't think of anything else to add. So he let Don keep going. Obviously, these were things Don needed to get off his chest.

"It's okay though," Don said. "I wouldn't know how to treat me, either. I mean, I don't think anyone can really, really understand how this feels, you know? It's just so incredibly hard. And no matter what I try to say, no one can really understand. It just makes me feel kind of isolated. Like I'm on the other side of a big wall or something."

Unshed tears shone in Don's eyes, although it was quite clear to Charlie how much effort his brother was putting forth not to let them break free. Much to his dismay, Charlie still didn't know what to say. He searched his brain, trying to come up with something comforting, but he was at a loss. Instead, he let his hand rest stationary on Don's shoulder.

"How's that for showing a little weakness, huh?" Don grinned, and Charlie grinned back. "How about you, Chuck? Care to share?"

Charlie hesitated. _Don can express emotion now, and you can't? Sheesh, Charlie._ He took a deep breath. Time to dive in.

"I see it every time I close my eyes," he began. "I always have dreams about it. I keep seeing . . . I keep seeing the way it looked through the windshield as we rolled over. I keep seeing the rain and how it just covered _everything_. And I keep seeing you. I keep seeing you underneath the car. And you were bleeding, and . . ."

He couldn't continue. The lump in his throat rose up suddenly, exploding through his mouth in several hacking sobs. His face was suddenly wet from tears—just like with the rain. Don wrapped an arm around his shoulders as he cried.

After a minute, Charlie resumed speaking. "You know, considering how I sustained a head injury, I'm amazed at how much of it I remember. I remember _all_ of it. Clearly. And I just really wish I didn't. And I just keep having this dream, even now, where you're laying on the ground, and it's raining _so hard_, and you're just begging me to help you, but I can't. And I always wake up just feeling so awful. It was worse right after I got out of the hospital, but I still have that dream all the time."

"And that's why it was so hard for you to come see me," Don said. "Is that part of why you were blaming yourself so much?"

Charlie shrugged. How should he know? "I'm not sure. I just know that I spent so much time feeling like everything was my fault that I didn't realize it wasn't over. I was still making things worse. I shouldn't have spent so much time away. I should have been there, and now a part of me feels worse than before."

Don sighed shakily. He was clearly struggling to maintain composure. "I know you do. And I don't really know how to make that better."

Charlie scoffed. "You know, that is _so_ like you. Why do you think the way I feel and my well-being is your responsibility? I mean it's always been like that."

Don seemed to ignore him. "I should remind you that you _did _save my life, you know. The accident wasn't your fault but I would have bled out and died if you hadn't been there. I feel no blame towards you, I'm just grateful." He paused in thought, and Charlie was stunned. His brother was _grateful_ to him. Before he could really think about that, Don continued. "I think we both have the same problem. We're both just two guys who could use a brother. But we've both got our own issues, and it's just a hard time for either of us to_ be_ a brother to anyone."

"Yeah, I suppose it has been," Charlie agreed. "But I think maybe that's not true anymore. I mean . . . look at us."

Don chuckled. "We're kind of a mess, aren't we?"

"Maybe a little."

"So how're you doing now?" Don asked him in all seriousness. "You okay? Or should we call Dad? It's really okay if we do; I'm not going to think any less of you for being messed up. You know that, right? I mean I'm pretty messed up too, so I guess we're in this together."

"Yeah, I do know that." Charlie smiled, his heart warmed by the sincerity of his brother's words. "But no, calling Dad would be the easy thing to do, but I think I need to do this. I need to get us home."

"All right, whatever you want," Don conceded. "We'll just take it slow. If you ever need to pull over and collect yourself, it's okay."

It was good, Charlie realized, having someone with him who understood him so well. He put the car into drive, feeling more confident than he had in a long time. He and Don may both have been a little worse for wear, but at least they were alive. They were alive, Charlie had a feeling they'd be depending on each other to move on.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Hmm. I've noticed the responses to this story have slowly gotten less and less over the last few chapters, especially this last chapter. Where have all my readers gone? Did I lose you? Please come back!

Well, here we are at the final chapter. I loved loved loved writing this story, so I wouldn't be surprised to see another long-ish one out of me sometime in the future. This one pretty much came out of thin air, so who knows what I might come up with next. It's certainly been fun! I actually thought about writing more to this, but then when I was writing the last scene it just felt like an ending to me, so I stopped writing . . . although it actually saddened me quite a lot to see this story go.

Anywho, thanks to all who have stuck with me! And I really hope maybe some of you crawl out of the woodwork and let me know what you think about this chapter or the story in general, because hearing my readers' thoughts is seriously my biggest motivation to write more. So . . . the more feedback I get, the more I will feel like writing later. Thanks everyone!

Chapter 10 (Don)

Mixed feelings. Don realized that's what he had about . . . well, just about everything. Of course, he had mixed feelings about the big stuff. Like becoming a father, possibly any day now. Or about what to do next with his life. Or the suddenly shifting dynamics in his relationship with his younger brother. Don hadn't exactly meant to or planned on giving Charlie such an open glimpse into his personal feelings, but it had seemed like the only thing to do at the time—although a little while later, he'd started feeling a little embarrassed about it. It was ironic, too, because embarrassed was exactly what he'd told Charlie _not _to feel.

And today, Don had mixed feelings for the little things too. It was par for the course, he realized. He just couldn't seem to get a good handle on how he felt about anything—at all. Which is why he was half-excited but half-dreaded the idea of having a big dinner at Charlie's house with everyone there, including his old team. It would be like old times, which would hopefully give them all a sense of normalcy they hadn't felt in months. But at the same time, Don realized he hadn't been in a large group of people for a really long time. He only hoped he had the energy to stay alert and engaged all evening.

Now he stood—sort of, leaning on a pair of crutches—in his and Robin's small kitchen, quietly and perhaps a little clumsily preparing a couple of sandwiches. She was taking a nap in their bedroom at the moment. Don felt a small pang of guilt. She'd been working so hard lately, keeping up with the house and making sure everything was ready for the baby. On top of that, Robin was still wrapping up her last couple of cases before she went on maternity leave. She'd been doing so much, and Don hadn't been able to help her hardly at all. The least he could do was make her a sandwich for lunch.

Damn. He'd run in to a bit of a challenge, Don realized as he slapped the top slice of bread onto the second sandwich. How would he go about delivering the sandwich to his wife? He was only fairly mobile at best with the use of crutches—which used up both of his hands. He couldn't exactly carry a plate with two sandwiches on it all the way to the bedroom. Damn. It was often the stupid little moments like this that made Don _really_ miss his leg and long for it to be there. A sense of hopelessness washed over him as he once again realized his leg was gone forever—he'd be dealing with that forever.

Well, the only thing he could think of to do was to wake Robin up and bring her out here. He wasn't in love with the idea; he wished he could just bring her lunch in bed. A now-familiar wave of frustration welled up inside him. Don could add carrying sandwiches to his ever-growing list of simple tasks he was currently unable to do.

Well, there wasn't anything he could do about it. Don shook his head, staring glumly down at the sandwiches that seemed to be mocking him by sitting stationary on the kitchen counter. He turned his back on them and began making his way towards the bedroom. Thank goodness their house was only one story.

He sat down gently on the side of the bed, shifting so he was half-facing Robin. Don smiled a little at the sight of her, sleeping peacefully. He spent a couple seconds watching her sleep. She was so beautiful, he thought. She looked about as pregnant as one could possibly look, he supposed, but it didn't matter. She was beautiful, and she'd been amazingly supportive of him these days. He couldn't help but feel he didn't quite deserve her. She'd been taking care of him, offering him reassurances when needed, standing strong and silent by his side when needed. Anger bubbled up inside of him. She'd been so incredible, giving him exactly what he needed exactly when he needed it, and he couldn't even do something as simple as bringing her a stupid sandwich.

_Let it go, Don_, he told himself. Of course, he knew he was still recovering, and hadn't learned to use a prosthetic leg yet, so of course daily tasks would still be challenging. He knew it would take time, but that didn't make him feel much better.

He sighed, and reached out to touch Robin's shoulder. He rubbed it gently until she looked at him, a smile in her eyes.

"Hey," she whispered.

"Hey," he answered. "Sorry to wake you. But I made lunch, if you want some. If not, you can go back to sleep." Maybe he should have just let her sleep.

She sat up as quickly as her pregnant belly would allow. "You made me lunch? That's so sweet of you. What'd you make?"

"Don't get too excited," Don chuckled a little. "My cooking skills are basic at best, remember? I just made us a couple of cold turkey sandwiches. I wanted to bring them in here, so we could eat them in bed, but then I realized my hands were full and I didn't have a way to transport them. So they're still sitting on the kitchen counter."

Robin laughed. "That's okay. I can go get them. I'll bring them back here so we can still eat them in bed."

Don grimaced a little. "Sorry."

She was back in front of him in a flash. "Don, it's okay. I know you want to do more, but I've told you a million times, you just do what you can and don't worry about the rest."

Don sighed. "Is it too much to ask to be able to bring my pregnant wife food in bed?"

Robin looked at him, it was clear she ached for him. "Don, you've already done 99 percent of the work, and I appreciate it so much." She sighed sadly. "Don, you've _just_ started coming back from something pretty serious. You're not Superman; surely you don't expect to just suddenly bounce back, do you?"

"No, I don't," Don admitted. "But that doesn't mean it's not still really frustrating sometimes."

She nodded, her eyes shut. "Yeah, I guess not. I'll just go get those sandwiches then."

Her hand was gone from his shoulder. He sat, staring at the doorway for the thirty seconds it took her to return with the plate of sandwiches.

After Robin sat, she immediately picked up the sandwich and took a bite. "This isn't really about the sandwiches, is it?" she asked around a mouthful of sandwich.

Don thought for a moment, and realized she was right. He wasn't really all that upset about the sandwiches.

"No, it's not," he said softly. "But it's not about anything new. It's still just the same old issues it has been."

He felt Robin watching him thoughtfully as she continued eating. Don's sandwich lay untouched on the plate.

"I'm so sorry Don." Her words were laced with sorrow. "I just wish I knew how to help you through this. I wish I was wise enough to know what to say. Or better yet, I wish I could . . . I don't know, sew your leg back on for you so that you wouldn't _have_ to deal with this."

Don couldn't help but smile a little. "No. Really, you've done so much for me already. More than I could have ever asked. I just wish I could repay you, even just a little bit."

"Are you kidding me?" Robin grinned at him. He noticed her sandwich was gone already. "I'm a lucky woman. My man just made _me_ a sandwich. And it was delicious. You know, it's the little things like you making me a sandwich when I'm too tired and . . . well, _pregnant_ to do so myself that can really brighten my day."

"Well, that's good, because you've been taking care of me so much lately," Don pointed out. "You deserve to be taken care of a little yourself. I mean, you've been doing a lot these days. I just want you to know how much I really appreciate it. I love you, you know."

"I know." She reached over to cup his cheek with her hand. "I love you too. That's why I can take care of you all the time. And, Don, I know you. I know you're scared about being a father right now, but I am so sure that it'll be fine. I know I won't end up having to do everything with the baby. Like I said before, it's the little things that help. There's no reason why you can't plant yourself in that chair out there in the living room with the baby and feed him, burp him, and then rock him to sleep. Actually I can picture the two of you snuggled up, taking naps together out there. You don't even have to move to do those things, right? You'll do what you can."

"Well, yeah, I'm a little nervous about that," Don admitted quietly. "But I'm back to being pretty excited, too. I need something else besides this to focus on." He gestured to the remaining piece of his leg. "A baby should be perfect for that."

"Ha!" Robin laughed. "Oh, yeah. A baby will be the best distraction you can get."

Don grinned. "Hey, I noticed you said 'him' before. You think the baby's going to be a boy now, huh?"

"Shut up." She hit him in the face with a pillow. "I told you I'd probably change my mind, didn't I?"

* * *

><p>Since he was unable to easily maneuver upstairs, the newly renovated garage his father had been living in seemed the only private solace in the old Craftsman that Don could find. He sat in his father's old easy lounge chair, not moving and not really looking at anything.<p>

The house was full of everyone he cared about: his family; Nikki, Colby, Liz, and Larry. When he and Robin arrived, they'd all been full of jokes and laughter; they carried on as usual. His former team had told him some funny stories from the office, Charlie and Larry had been discussing who-knows-what, and his father was cheerfully busy in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. They had all acted like nothing was different at all, which was what Don had thought he'd wanted.

He appreciated their efforts to pretend everything was normal, he really did, but at the same time he found himself a little overwhelmed. He'd needed a few moments alone, so when the conversations had all been directed away from him, he'd quietly sneaked off before anyone noticed. He just needed to collect himself, and then he'd be fine.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. "Hey Don, you out here?" It sounded suspiciously like Charlie's voice.

_Great_. They'd noticed he was gone and had come looking for him. Time to suck it up and go back in and be social and happy.

"Yeah, Chuck, I'm in here," he called back.

"Hey," Charlie said, entering the room and crossing to sit down on the small loveseat across from Don. "We saw you leave awhile ago, and we thought maybe you just needed some time alone, but I mean now food's almost ready, so I thought I'd come find you."

Don stared. He thought he'd managed to slink off unnoticed.

Charlie picked up on his disbelief. "Well, no offense Don, but you're not exactly sneaky with those things." He gestured to the crutches that were leaning against Don's chair. "Not to mention, you've been out here now for about forty-five minutes."

What? No, it couldn't possibly have been that long. Don checked his watch, dismayed to find that Charlie was right.

"Sorry, buddy," he said, grabbing his crutches. "Let's go back inside now."

Before he could attempt to pull himself up, Charlie stopped him. "Hey. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," he assured his brother. "I'm fine. It's like you said, I just needed a little time alone. It's fine, really."

He tried again to hoist himself up, but stopped himself upon seeing the hurt look on Charlie's face. He leaned back, staring back at his brother.

"You know, Don," Charlie began. "I thought you were okay talking to me about this. I was really happy, because I know you've never really been all that forthcoming with me about certain things. Until the other day in the car, anyway. So what was that about?"

Don sighed. "Charlie, it's just not that easy, okay? Sometimes I feel like I've talked about things so much, I don't even know what to say about it anymore. And we all know I've never been the best at this."

Charlie snorted. "Yeah, got that right. I'm sorry, though, man. You should just talk to me when you want to."

Don couldn't help but smile. The way Charlie had said that was so awkward, so Charlie. "Thanks, buddy. But hey, you want to know something?"

Charlie had stood up, but stopped, looking down at Don expectantly.

"Most of the time, it's easier to talk to you about this than anyone else," Don admitted. "Probably because you were there with me in that accident. I mean, you don't understand any of this about my leg any better than anyone else, but you've got your own issues with things. So like, when I talk to Robin, it's just _her_ making _me_ feel better all the time. But with you, you've got problems of your own, so it's like we're just helping each other. I don't know; it makes me feel less screwed up."

Charlie laughed, but he was beaming. "Well, I'm glad I could help by being just as messed up as you."

Don grinned. "So how've you been, anyway? Still having nightmares?"

Some of the light left Charlie's eyes as he exhaled heavily. "Every night. But they are starting to get a little less . . . well, vivid."

Don nodded slowly. "Well, that's a start."

"How about you?" Charlie reciprocated. "You making any progress towards normal?"

Don scoffed lightly. "Ha. Normal. Well . . . in rehab yesterday I almost sort of walked on a training prosthetic using the parallel bars. Almost. And I think my biggest accomplishment today was . . . well, I managed to maneuver myself around the kitchen enough to make Robin a sandwich."

"Well, that's a start," Charlie parroted Don's earlier words. "You can _almost_ walk with a lot of help, and you can make sandwiches. I guess that's more than you could do two weeks ago, right?"

Don furrowed his brow in an expression of sort-of mock amusement. "Yeah, I guess." He laughed quietly.

"Man, we're kind of pathetic," Charlie pointed out. "I can't sleep through the night and you can barely make a sandwich."

Don laughed harder, but quickly grew serious again. "Yeah, well, obviously this is a slow process. I don't know about you, but sometimes I don't even feel like me anymore."

"I know what you mean," Charlie agreed. "I feel like we were just so blindsided by this that even now, almost two months later, I haven't even figured out how I'm supposed to feel about it."

"Tell me about it," Don said. "I haven't had much to do other than try to figure that out, but I haven't come up with the answer yet. I mean, it's scary. And since I've been home from the hospital, I haven't been able to do much so I've been feeling kind of useless. I feel like Robin has to do everything, and it's not fair to her. But I don't know what I'd do without her. But on the other hand, I can't tell you how much I _hate_ being so dependent on her for every little thing."

Charlie smiled sadly. "I don't know what you're worried about. You seem like Don Eppes to me. I could have guessed all that. You've never been good at letting people take care of you, but now you don't really have a choice. But yeah, I'm conflicted a lot too. I know in my head that what happened to you isn't my fault. But no matter how much I tell myself that, I can't stop feeling a small amount of guilt. I don't know if it will ever completely go away. And I might even still just be a little bit in shock that this actually happened. It scares me a little bit."

Don nodded thoughtfully. It scared him, too, that something this big could happen and catch them all so completely off guard and change their lives so drastically.

"Me too," he whispered. He glanced up, sharing a meaningful look with his younger brother. Charlie's eyes were sad, but hopeful, Don noticed. The younger man's knowing look sent Don a clear message—that he hoped Don would trust him enough to be able to talk to him any time.

Don sent Charlie a reassuring smile. "Well, we should probably go back inside the house before Dad sends out a search party."

"Yeah," Charlie smiled back. "We're probably in trouble."

Don laughed. "So, you want to be a good brother and help me up from this chair?"

Charlie's gaze took on a mischievous glint. "I don't know, it might be faster for me to just rush back right now. Then I wouldn't get in trouble with Dad."

"Oh, and leave me stuck here?" Don joked. "Some brother you are!"

"Well, okay, but only because I want to keep the peace and just have a nice dinner." Charlie reached out his hand, and Don grabbed it. He relished in the solid connection as Charlie held onto him, pulling upwards. Once Don was situated on his crutches, the two started out towards the house. Before they went inside though, Don stopped suddenly. He needed to say one last thing.

"Hey, Charlie," he said, and Charlie looked at him expectantly. "Thanks, buddy. I'm not sure what I'd do here without you. And I don't know if I ever officially thanked you for saving my life after the accident, so now I am. Thank you, Charlie." He clapped a hand on his brother's shoulder.

Charlie looked back at him, clearly touched and overcome with emotion. He smiled sheepishly before responding. "I'm not sure how I'd be doing without you either. Thanks."

Don pulled his hand off Charlie's shoulder and put it back on the crutch handle. "Well, let's get some dinner, shall we? If we don't get in there Colby's probably going to eat both our shares."

"I don't know," Charlie said as he pulled the door open. "I'm more worried about your pregnant wife. She eats a lot these days. She might beat Colby to it."

Don laughed a loud, heartfelt laugh like he hadn't in weeks as they emerged from the kitchen. Everyone was seated at the table, already eating. Don noted amusedly that there was still plenty of food left for him and Charlie. Some things never changed; it looked like their father had cooked more than enough food.

As the two brothers sat down, their father looked up and smiled at them. Don returned the smile. He knew that deep down, his dad was likely bursting at the seams with pride. His two sons were on really good terms . . . something that hadn't seemed so likely to ever happen for most of the time that Don had been in the hospital. He could only imagine how relieved his father was.

Don and Charlie wordlessly took their seats and began dishing food onto their plates. Don paused, reaching over to throw his arm over Robin's shoulders briefly. She looked up at him and smiled. Silently, he assured her that everything would eventually be all right. She took his hand, and rubbed a reassurance back to him. Don smiled and returned to his dinner.

The group of them laughed and joked all through dinner, and Don had to admit, it was really nice to spend the evening doing something normal as a big dinner with family and friends. As they sat there, it became easier to forget that anything had happened, and Don felt his spirits lift higher than they'd been in a long time.

He still had a long way to go, and he knew Charlie did too. Occasionally, they'd swap knowing glances across the table. Don realized how much better it made him feel to know that he and Charlie were going through this together; he was indescribably grateful not to be alone through this. Charlie and he each had their own separate, completely different issues to work through, but Don was relieved to realize they could help. He'd been worried, but now he knew that he could trust Charlie to handle it. They could lean on each other.

Lots of things were changing. Life had certainly been taking them all for a ride lately, but Don knew one thing. Of all the things that were changing as a result of the car accident, one was a good change. His relationship with Charlie was shifting, but for the better. They were developing a support system for each other.

Don smiled as he looked around the table at his family and friends. Yeah, he and Charlie were far from being fine, but he was beginning to feel more confident that they would be—because he had Charlie to help him. Don knew he mostly couldn't take care of himself yet, but it was okay. However, he could take care of Charlie, because Charlie would also be there to take care of him. His smile widened into a grin.

FIN.

* * *

><p>That's all, folks! Hope you enjoyed, and thanks for coming along for the ride! I hope you all will miss this story as much as I will. Once again (last time I will say this here) please review, I would love to hear your thoughts!<p> 


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